


A Dark Lamp: Tea Time

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, I hope, NC17, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: The woman had a lovely, heart-shaped face, large grey eyes, dark brown hair that would be auburn in bright sunlight. Her cape was dark olive, and sodden from the shoulders down. She removed her hat and, looking at Harriet, said, "Is this seat taken?"For her part, Harriet stared dumbly at the apparition of beauty before nodding. "Of course, I'm so sorry. Please, join me."





	1. With Lemon, or Milk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirs. Harriet Watson, meet Mrs. Clara Lausier

Callender's Coffeehouse was lovely, Harriet decided, settling in one corner between the front bay window and the fireplace. Not too large, not too small, catering to Gentlemen and Ladies as well as persons such as herself. This little cafe was cozy, and well filled. She felt lucky to have gotten a table at all, especially considering the rain. A downpour she had not expected one bit. She might not have left home otherwise, at least not without a dram or two. The gentleman next to her had a honk of a laugh, his companion a Lady of refinement, considering her dress. Or perhaps not, given the way she winked at Harriet as the gentleman sprayed biscuit crumbs all over the table cloth as he sputtered at his own joke.

Harriet hastily looked out the window. Rain runelled down the window panes, the occasional flash of lightning and crack of thunder making her jump. 

"Here we are, ma'am," said the young woman who had taken her order. "One pot of chocolate, a slice of Madeira cake, and a cheese sandwich."

"Thank you, " said Harriet, hardly sure where to begin. She poured herself chocolate from the elegant, swan necked blue and white china pot into its matching fine china cup, inhaled the delicious scent and felt her mouth water at the prospect. Who would have ever thought she could have hot chocolate on a daily basis? So decadent. Had she stayed in London she never would have had the pleasure of it. It needed to cool, however, so she focused on buttering the bread before adding the cheese and mustard, biting into and nearly swooning from the fatty, sharp, and bright flavour. She took one more bite before sipping her chocolate, the sweetness cutting through the tang of of the sandwich. The Madeira slice taunted her, but she held herself back until she had finished the sandwich. She no longer felt faint, which was good. John would have her head if she collapsed in the streets like some ill-fed maid of all work.

Harriet was on her second cup of chocolate when the front door banged open on a gust of wind, sending newspapers to rattling. A young woman holding firmly on to her hat turned and pushed the door shut, leaning against it quite hard to do so. The rain did not abate one bit, unluckily for her. Once she was through she turned to face a room of unsmiling faces. Harriet stared at her, too.

The woman had a lovely, heart-shaped face, large grey eyes, dark brown hair that would be auburn in bright sunlight. Her cape was dark olive, and sodden from the shoulders down. She removed her hat and, looking at Harriet, said, "Is this seat taken?"

For her part, Harriet stared dumbly at the apparition of beauty before nodding. "Of course, I'm so sorry. Please, join me."

"Oh, thank you so much. Isn't the rain terrible? I'm so glad we're sitting by the fire," said the woman. She stripped off her kid gloves, delicate cream lace from her sleeves falling around her bird-bone wrists. 

"Yes, so unexpected," said Harriet. She raised a hand to attract the waitress. "If I had any idea I would have brought an umbrella."

The woman looked her brightly, eyebrows raised. "You're from England!"

"Yes, London."

"I'd love to see London. And Paris, and Rome. Have you ever been?"

Amused by the younger woman's enthusiasm for her filthy hometown, Harriet couldn't help but smile in return. "I've been to both. Beautiful cities. You should go if you get the chance, miss...?"

"Lausier, Mrs. Clara Lausier. I do apologize - ah," Mrs. Lausier stopped to order her own hot chocolate and toast and jam. "I tried to convince my husband to take me, but he was too busy."

Harriet blinked. How...informal of Mrs. Lausier to tell her such intimate details when they had only just met! Of course, that seemed to be the American pattern. Even after living here for six years, she still was surprised by how free of social constraints they seemed to be. The children were with Martha, who undoubtedly would be more than happy to take care of them on her own, without Harriet's interference. She supposed she ought to feel guilty about that, but the truth was she had so little time to herself, it was a relief to know they were being cared for, even if it was by Martha. To have the routine of the day broken merely by a rainstorm - she closed her eyes and shook her head at the serendipity of it. No doubt John would not approve, but he didn't have children, did he? He didn't understand what it was like to be in the house, day after relentless day, with no friend, no husband, nay, even the pastor had a tendency to ignore her overtures of friendship. It could only be down to Silas, and his silence. It had been nearly two years since Silas had left for California - if that was where he had truly gone. Harriet wasn't convinced. On the other hand, no one had come knocking at the door, looking for money, so maybe he really had travelled out West. Maybe he would bring back his fortune and they would all live happily ever after.

If wishes were horses...

"I'm sure some day you'll make it to each and every one of those cities."

Mrs. Lausier smiled again, her whole face innocent and fresh, and Harriet felt as though she could sink into those large eyes forever. She hastily drank the rest of her cocoa, poured the last of the pot into her cup, stared at it because she had intended to get up and leave. Instead, she was going to drink the remainder. And eat her cake. 

"Will your husband be joining you here?" enquired Mrs Lausier.

"Silas? No, no," Dear G-d, perish the thought. 

The conversation was light for a such a sodden day, and led to a round of tea once the chocolate was finished. A discussion of popular literature led to an animated discussion of _The Liberator_ , Mr. Garrison's wonderful Abolitionist newspaper. Harriet herself was very much in favor of the movement, though Silas preferred it when she kept her silence on the subject.

Harriet only noticed how much time had passed as the shop emptied, and the pressure on her bladder from drinking so much became uncomfortable. Hartwell was going to cling to her as if he hadn't seen her that very morning. She put her teacup down and smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid I must be getting back. I've already spend too much time out and about today."

"Of course, I won't delay you any longer," answered Mrs. Lausier.

Harriet stood and readjusted her cloak around her shoulders. "I hope your afternoon remains as pleasant as it has been for the past three hours. Good day, Mrs. Lausier."

Mrs. Lausier seemed a little crestfallen, yet she bid her goodbyes without haste.

Outside, the sun had finally broken through the clouds, turning the day warm. A lady walking past - their eyes met and the lady nodded and smiled. Yes, the sun brought out the good in most people, Harriet decided, continuing on her way. She stopped at Terwilligers, bought a small packet of cocoa and a single nutmeg, a cone of sugar and a block of salt, even though she wasn't really sure she needed either one. She had all the necessary ingredients at home to make a cake or some flavored biscuits in the American style, and she could make a nutmeg cake for Silas. He liked having that with his coffee in the mornings, and she could make chocolate for the children as a special treat.

It was mysteriously silent when she entered the house. Harriet stood still, head cocked to one side, listening hard. "Eliza? Hartwell?" 

When there was no reply forthcoming, Harriet checked the kitchen. The children's coats and boots were gone, as were Martha's, so that was all to the good. Hopefully Martha had taken them out to run around since the rain had passed. With a sigh of relief, Harriet removed her own cloak and boots, changing into house slippers and a wrapping a wool shawl around her shoulders. She put away the dry goods and went into the living room to recuperate from her day.

It wasn't until she was sitting down that she realized she had never told Mrs. Lausier her own name. Oh, she would have to make enquiries. The afternoon had been so pleasant, and it was lovely meeting someone with whom she could carry on a discussion. And have more cake and tea would not go amiss.

Leaning back against the sofa, she wondered if maybe it was time to re-do the room. The wall color was still fashionable, though, an she still liked it, so maybe not. Her eye was caught by an opened letter on the mantelpiece. As she approached, she could see that one was addressed to her _Harriet_ , It was Silas's handwriting and dread filled the pit of her belly. The other was to _Mrs. Silas Watson_ , which made her smile, because that would be from John. The question was, what to open first? Pursing her lips, she took the one from Silas, unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Harriet -_

She snorted. At least he hadn't attempted to be share any sort of uxoriuous feeling towards her.

_I have left for California. Mr. Wakefield has a monthly stipend for you. I will write to you when I can._

_Silas_

Harriet read it again in disbelief, then again, and once more. She couldn't understand what she was reading. Silas had left for California? Why? How? When? He had left the previous evening for Mrs. Forrester's, who was abed with her seventh, g-d bless her.

If it had been a letter from any other man, she would send a boy to find out the truth immediately. But this was from Silas, whom she doubted had told the truth a day in his life - apart from this one instance. The letter was short, for one thing, without any of the flowery language he had employed when first courting her. The biggest tell, however, was that she felt the truth of it in her gut. She believed it wholeheartedly - she was on her own with Eliza and Hartwell until he chose to return. And that part...no...he was gone for good, as far as she was concerned. But, why now? Obviously something had happened to make him scurry off - she ran out of the parlour and pounded up the stairs to their bedroom. Whipping open first the closet door, then the armoire, and finally the dresser - he hadn't taken anything except the clothes on his back. 

Frowning, Harriet slowly sat on the bed, trying to muddle through what was happening - what had happened. His clothes were still here...he was a vain man, he took care in his appearance and personal habits, how had he not returned and gathered his things? Maybe she was wrong, maybe he had been accosted on the street, and forced to right the letter? Or...Harriet pushed off the bed and hastened back down the stairs. She walked quickly down the hall before stopping at the door marked 'PRIVATE'. Silas didn't normally leave the door unlocked - she tried the handle, shook her head as it easily turned under her hand. 

The curtains were drawn, yet that made no difference. The office was empty. The atmosphere was different, too. Nothing she could put her finger on, just...different. There was one thing she ought to check. Silas had had his desk especially made. On the left hand side of the desk was a narrow slit, not that long, that opened into the top left side drawer, which was also lockable. This was where Silas dropped cash payments and promissory notes. He had told her once that he felt money was so safe in the drawer, that the desk was so heavy he had no fears of it being stolen out of the office, that he rarely emptied it. Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, Harriet strode into the room, reached for the drawer handle and pulled it open.

Martha brought the children home late in the afternoon. They were hungry and loud and glad to see Harriet, which made her feel even worse. Wanting to keep busy, she had already prepared a dinner of boiled eggs, toasted bread with cheese or butter, and cider jelly. Halfway through their meal, during the lull between Eliza telling her about the doll she had seen in the storefront at Terwilliger's, and Hartwell spilling his milk halfway down his shirt, she told everyone to shush. "Children, I have something to tell you."

"Is it about Papa?" asked Eliza, peeling the shell off of another egg.

Harriet folded her hands in her lap, squeezed them tightly together in the hopes of remaining calm in front of the children. "What about Papa?"

Eliza shrugged. "He was talking a man who spoke funny, and he said he would fix things, and that he would be okay."

"Well. Yes. Your papa has fixed things, is fixing things, but he's had to go away to do so."

"Papa go!" said Hartwell, slapping his hand in the spilled milk.

"Yes," Harriet said, waiting for more questions from Eliza with bated breath. "I don't know when he'll be back."

Eliza shrugged again. "That's okay, Mama. I'll take care of you, and you'll take care of us."

"Of course I will, my two darlings," Harriet managed to choke out, fighting back a sudden swell of tears. Eliza's innocence, her trust, her faith in Harriet - she would do her best by them both. On the morrow she would visit Mr. Wakefield and find out just how much her stipend was, and if it would be enough to carry the household forward until Silas's 'return'. At least she had her teacher's certificate to fall back upon, and hopefully John would take her up on her offer of housing. With any luck, he would take over Silas' practice as well, and there would be no further worries for heat or food or anything. It could work...she would make it work.

 

~*~oOo~*~

 

Harriet took a seat in the gallery, glad she had arrived early enough to avoid the crush. It was already hot; she was not the only woman to let her shawl fall from her shoulders, or to produce a fan. The benches below were filled to capacity, and still more men gathered in the aisles, pressing against their fellows in the most intimate of ways. Finally, Mr. Lapierre stood at the podium and gestured with both hands for everyone who could to seat themselves.

"Gentlemen, ladies, the Abolitionist Society of Boston is honored to sponsor our fellow from Ohio in his nationwide speaking tour - "

Harriet soon grew distracted, for the heat of all of the people was turning the gallery from bearable to terrible. She removed her hat, surreptitiously undid the top button of her dress at her neck. She was going to require a bath when she returned home. 

" - you, John Osowatomie Brown!"

The resultant cheering was thunderous, and she was struck anew by the enthusiasm of everyone in the hall. She settled in to listen, and soon found herself entranced by his words.

_"As free men, we must endeavour to lift the afflicted from their state of slavery in - "_

Harriet pushed through the crowd on the stairs, desperate to get outside and into fresh air. In her haste she lost her balance on the bottom riser and fell into another woman, pushing her in turn into the corner. "Ma'am, my apolo - oh! It's you!"

Mrs. Lausier looked up, her expression turning from startled and annoyed to pleased. A fine blush stole over her cheeks. "Oh hello! Mrs - I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name!"

"Watson," Harriet supplied, kicking herself yet again for never giving the other woman her name in the first place. "Harriet Watson. I'm so glad to meet you again, Mrs. Lausier, but I simply must get outside. I feel a little faint and the air will do me a world of good."

"Of course," said Mrs. Lausier, immediately putting her arm around Harriet's waist. "Please allow me to come with you."

They made their way through the crowd of men in the hallway, and then the foyer, and then onto the steps, where the press of people wasn't quite so bad. The sharp air was gloriously refreshing, and Harriet relished the cloudless blue sky above. "For all of our conversation, I didn't expect to see you here."

Mrs. Lausier smiled shyly. "I don't know if I may be called such right now. I'm still trying to expand my horizons, as we discussed when we first met."

"This is rather extreme," suggested Harriet. "Is Mr. Lausier opinionated on the subject?"

"He doesn't know I've come to hear Mr. Brown. He has a lot of business in the South and I doubt he would be best pleased. In truth, I'm not sure I should be here, either."

Harriet nodded in sympathy. She understood more than Mrs. Lausier knew. "Why don't you come for tea? I've been here for five years, and I still feel not quite right in my surroundings."

"Mrs. Watson, I would love to have tea with you. Then we can discuss what we have heard, perhaps found a society of our own."

"Excellent. Shall we go to Forbes?"

"Whatever you suggest."

Forbes was a little out of the way place Harriet had found after getting lost one day. She had been patronising the place ever since. It carried proper British tea, for one thing, as well as varieties from the Far East. She would try the variety from India, she thought. She wasn't as partial to tea as Mother had been, yet she knew she had a good reputation for being a nose, easily able to detect varieties and where they had come from. Besides that, they sold little cakes wrapped in marzipan fondant, and Jordan almonds and Turkish Delight.

Despite the sunshine and the name of the month, it was still winter in New England and Harriet was glad to reach Forbes. There were only three small tables as it was mostly a wholesalers, rather than a retail environment, but the manager had taken a shine to her and allowed her to sit and have tea while her order was prepared. Thus fortified by the warmth of the parlor stove, Harriet expressed her admiration for Mr. Brown.

"He's a fearsome looking man," replied Mrs. Lausier. "Yet his passion for abolition shines through and makes him handsome, don't you think?"

"I do agree. I think if his features were more appealing to the eye, he might have more supporters in the South."

Mrs. Lausier shook her head. "I very much doubt it. My family owns a plantation in Virginia, I doubt my father would ever even look at Mr. Brown, never mind read one of his treatises. He won't even read Mr. Thoreau or Mr. Emerson's works, for their stance on abolition."

Harriet frowned quizzically. "Aren't you worried your family will take issue with you seeing him here today?"

"No," Mrs. Lausier's smile dropped along with her gaze. "I have no concerns on that issue where they're concerned. We are somewhat estranged at the moment."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject."

"No, no, it's fine. It's all fine. We'll see one another in the Almighty's embrace if not again in this lifetime."

As much as Harriet would have loved to make fun of Americans stance on religion, in the five years she had been in New England, she found religion slightly less omnipresent than she had been imagining. A pleasant surprise considering the oratory she had been subjected to in London.

Mrs. Lausier's eyes widened, then crinkled as she chuckled. "Pray excuse me, Mrs. Watson. I have yet to become accustomed to these New England ways."

"I'm a stranger here myself, Mrs. Lausier," answered Harriet, smiling. 

Their tea was brought to the table while they chit-chatted about inconsequential things. Harriet once again found herself liking Mrs. Lausier quite a lot. They shared many of the same thoughts, and though Mrs. Lausier did not have any children, she commiserated with Harriet being unable to find a suitable school for Eliza.

"My younger sister have exactly the same problem. That's why Mother teaches them at home."

Harriet shuddered delicately. She would rather jump into the Charles than try and teach Eliza anything. Hartwell might soon also be amenable as he was still biddable...and then there was the matter of Jingle. "I'm afraid I don't have the temperment to do the same."

"You never know, Mrs. Watson, what we may be called upon to do, or know the strength with which to do it until the moment is at hand."

"Indeed, Mrs. Lausier."

"Oh," Mrs. Lausier made a pained expression. "Please call me Clara. 'Mrs. Lausier' always reminds me of my older sister, Josephine."

"Surely that's a good thing?" asked Harriet politely.

Clara - it was a lovely name - wrinkled her nose a bit. "I don't know if I can explain it, but...older sisters have a way of making a person unwell in the heart."

"Oh," Harriet nodded fiercely. "I have an older brother who likes to lord his knowledge of the world over me whenever he can. He's lucky I'm so fond of him."

"Yes, I expect so. I think if I had stayed at home, my sisters would probably feel the same way about me."

Harriet had a hard time not staring at Clara's navy dress. It was immaculate, a very good, very heavy wool suitable for the temperature of the day. The brightness of the navy also brought out new hues in her large eyes. Clara had also dared to take off her leather gloves, presenting Harriet with beautifully shaped nails and slender fingers that clearly saw little labour.

"Is your family well?"

Harriet came back from her musings not understanding a thing Clara had just said. "Family?"

Clara leaned forward, amused rather than concerned. "Are they well?"

"Well? Yes, yes of course. They are," she finally managed to spit out. "Neither Hartwell nor Eliza are prone to illness, thank Providence. Martha keeps the house very clean, and I have instructed her in special ways that both my brother and my husband have insisted upon. Boiled water for personal use, always, and no food kept on the kitchen counter in the heat of summer, among other things."

"Oh! But isn't that...dangerous?"

"No," said Harriet, shaking her head. "These rules have kept us all the better for being used. Not only that, but we are to sleep with the windows open whenever we can, and change the bedding at least once a week."

"Yes," whispered Clara, leaning even more closely. "So many here keep their windows shut at all times! Surely that promotes a miasma of the lung!"

"I'm not the doctor, but I agree with you. I've been in one stuffy house too many in the height of summer."

Another brief silence fell, but Harriet felt no need to fill it with inconsequential talk. She liked having a friend with whom she could discuss abolition one minute, and the health of her children the next. More importantly, Clara didn't appear to be shocked by anything Harriet said.

Yes, it would be lovely to have a friend, a confidant. Oh, she knew plenty of ladies, the wives of Silas's doctor friends, but they didn't like her, for reasons she couldn't fathom. They looked down upon her, and the worst of it was, Silas didn't understand.

"I don't know what you want me to do about it," he had said irritably, not even bothering to look at her as he rummaged through the papers in the top cubby of the writing desk.

Harriet had tried to get his attention by touching his shoulder, but he had only twitched away, his lip curled.

"You'll make friends if you just stop being so... _you."_

She stopped dead in her tracks. "What, what do you mean?"

"You know what you're like, Harriet," he had said, closing the drawer and turning his back on her in favor of putting on his coat and hat. On his way out of the parlour, over his shoulder, he glanced in her general direction. "Figure it out."

That had been when Hartwell was still inside of her, when she had needed Silas the most, and he had utterly failed her.

He had changed so much once he brought her back to America. Gone was the kind man she had known, the one who was happy to spend an afternoon with her, going for walks and discussing the poets they had read. He was just so different now, she felt as if he were a complete stranger. Not only that, but the last time they had had relations had been before Hartwell arrived, and only because she had been so desperate and wanton, starved for affection of any sort. The memory of that was awful. He had said terrible things, afterward, and then had gone so far as to criticize the sounds she made as she cried. She had pressed her mouth into the pillow and sobbed all the harder, if silently.

"I suppose I should be going," said Clara, smiling. She was also looking at Harriet hopefully.

"We should do this again."

"I would like that very much."

"Here," Harriet, fumbling only a little, removed a card from her reticule and slid it across the table to Clara. "Please do call."

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson!'

"Harriet, please."

Clara nodded, her cheeks growing rosy. "Harriet. Tuesday, noon?"

"I'll see you then."

Putting on her gloves, Clara rose to her feet, hesitated. "Would you care to join me? I'm only going to the public library."

"Oh! I would love to," declared Harriet, and off they went.

A very pleasant day passed in this fashion, until Harriet's head and heart were swimming with affection. She was not normally prone to fall in love with a friendship upon a first, second, or even third meeting, but there was something about Clara that appealed to her greatly.

Over the next month winter turned springlike, and Harriet found herself looking forward to meeting Clara with more and more enthusiasm. Clara, though younger than Harriet by some years, and not at all well traveled outside of the Southern States, was an endlessly curious creature. She adored Eliza and Hartwell, and did not appear to be at all fussed that Silas had left the family. To her surprise, Harriet had discovered that having one's husband leave you apparently made you the guilty party. She still wasn't quite sure what to make of this new development, while at the same time she appreciated not having to go to the theatre with people whose company she did not enjoy.

Clara, having had little opportunity in her youth to visit the theatre, museums, and libraries, took every opportunity to drag Harriet along with her on her outings. She liked talking long walks wherever there was a chance to do so in nature, and was a great fan of the American philosophers. She was a voracious reader, practically going through a book a day when she wasn't with Harriet. 

"I hope you don't mind me coming here," Clara said one miserable day, having arrived mid-morning just before a vicious snow began to fall. She stood in front of the parlour window, staring out into the swirling mass of tiny snowflakes.

Taking a moment to focus on Clara rather than her hoop, Harriet was taken aback. "Of course not! We enjoy your company, me especially."

"Guillaume says I'm monopolizing your time. That I should try and develop other friendships."

_Guillaume says_ were words Harriet heard with increasing frequency, now that he had returned from wherever he had been. Though they had yet to meet, Harriet was sure she disliked Guillaume rather more than she ought. Honestly, what a thing to say to your young wife, whom you'd left to her own devices in a new part of the country while you gallivanted off to conduct business.

"I want you to come over and have tea with me."

"Oh…are you sure?"

Clara shook her head obstinately. "You are my closest friend, Harriet, and he has no cause to treat you as a stranger because of it. "

Harriet was doubtful, but Clara rarely spoke as to the state of her marriage. All Harriet knew was that much was missing from Clara's talk of her family. It seemed obvious to Harriet that Mr. Lausier, being so much older than Clara, more than twice her age, was very experienced in the ways of the world, and his attraction to Clara stemmed from her lack of the same. He was quite obsessed with her, in the same manner that one might be obsessed with a school medal. He did not love her, or rather, even Silas had loved Harriet more, and that was an odd thing to bear witness to. Though Mr. Lausier was wealthy, he spared nothing for Clara. Her clothes, though the fabric was fine, and well tailored, was also plainly worn and loved and to the trained eye, much repaired. Harriet was thinking of giving her a dress or two, the sprigged calico, the striped satin. She was sure Clara wouldn't mind, she had certainly admired them on Harriet. She wanted to ask who had bought Clara that fine navy wool the second time they had met, but eventually decided against it. There was no need to unintentionally humiliate the woman by quietly pointing out the difference from her ordinary wardrobe.

Two days later, once the worst of the weather had passed, Harriet arrived at Clara's home. Given the tidy but ever so slightly behind the current fashions of Clara's clothing, Harriet had few expectations where fashion was concerned. She definitely did not expect a grand, three storey home painted yellow with white trim. The frontage was four windows wide, two on either side of the front door, and each window was deep and tall. Thee were grand columns in the front, and a portico for carriages. 

Clara was already apologizing as they walked in. "It's a very grand house, and truth be told, I would be more comfortable in something more cozy."

The inside was precisely how Harriet thought it should look. Beautiful furniture, walls painted mustard and sky blue, polished wood floors and more brilliant white trim. She was very impressed with the decor and, turning towards Clara, was once again struck by her less than fashionable clothing. Clara was decent and presentable, but any woman worth her salt would understand the circumstances of her marriage.

Clara removed her hat and put it on the side table, unbuttoned her coat and tossed it on the nearest chair. "I didn't think it was so raw outside when we were in the Hall, but now that we've walked back I must stoke the fires higher. Jingle! Please, let me take your coat."

Harriet did as requested, stood next to the fireplace to warm her hands. 

"Ma'am?"

"Jingle, could you get the fires going? I'm absolutely freezing!" said Clara, moving to stand even closer to the fire than Harriet. 

Jingle turned out to be a short and pretty black woman, who glanced at Harriet with sharp eyes before kneeling down to her task. 

Another fine blush stole over Clara's cheeks. "Jingle belongs to my husband."

_Belongs?_ Harriet looked down at the woman, absolutely shocked. Clara had never mentioned having a house servant who was a slave. Then again, she was going to Abolitionist meetings as well, little wonder she never said anything.

"Guillaume wanted another, but I said no. One was more than enough."

"So says you, who doesn't have to clean the whole house!" Jingle said. 

Harriet was even more surprised at the woman's mocking tone. She wouldn't have had a regular servant say that to her, never mind one who was a slave! 

"That's true, but there are only the two of us here, Jingle. And Mr. Lausier traveling most of the time," chided Clara right back in a friendly, equally mocking tone.

"True enough, Missus," Jingle got to her feet again, wiping her hands on her apron. "It's just that you make a mess enough for the both of you, and then some. I'll get your tea."

Harriet raised an eyebrow as Jingle headed towards the door, torn between laughing and being outraged. The look of guilt on Clara's face spoke volumes, however, and Harriet had to chuckle. "That has the ring of truth to it."

"Oh, she'll spill all my secrets before company, she loves to do it," said Clara, perching on the end of the sofa closest to the fire. "You'll have to tell me some of your secrets in turn, so we're even."

"My husband has left me," blurted Harriet, who even as she was horrified at her own words, further embarrassed herself by bursting into tears. Covering her face with both hands, she found that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop sobbing. The stress of it all, keeping the information from the children, from his patients whom he hadn't, after all, told he was leaving. Nor had he had another doctor take over his practice. Which had turned out convenient for her, as John had immediately written back once she had told him of her situation, to tell her he had booked passage and would be arriving only a few weeks hence. He would take over the practice and all would be well again. She needed a man in the house after the office had been broken in to, needed the comforting presence of someone used to violence. The two men who had shown up at the door one morning...they had looked at her with calculating eyes and knowing smirks that had made her skin crawl. One of them looking her up and down with a gleam in his eye...she didn't even know what the word for it might be. Reprehensible? Disgusting? She shivered just thinking about it again.

Slim arms came around Harriet's shoulders and she found herself surrounded by Clara's gentle embrace from the side.

"Oh, my dear," whispered Clara. "It's all right. I knew you were under a terrible burden, but didn't want to ask. I know you English prefer to keep many things private, though I hoped you would tell me in time."

Clara drew her to the sofa and made her sit down. By this time Harriet had calmed down somewhat, reduced to hiccuping and great big sniffles. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't even think about it. We all of us have our breaking points where we must tell someone or simply burst. Now, tell me what's happened in full."

Harriet related it all, from Silas's change of attitude once they had left England, her constant loneliness, though that had been much ameliorated now that she had met Clara, her want of female friendship and how Silas had taken all of their ready cash. Her stipend was a scant ten dollars a month, and though John was willing to take over the practice, if he changed his mind, she would be forced to find work. 

"It's all been too much, of course it has," said Clara, leaning so close Harriet could feel the wash of her breath against her own lips.

Harriet had noticed Clara's mouth before, its perfect shape, each lip neither too thick nor too thin, plump and never dry looking. And Clara was so near...Harriet stretched a little, pressed her lips to Clara's. A close mouthed kiss, yet one which thrilled her heart and set it to racing. 

"Oh," murmured Clara, equally wide-eyed. 

"Tea," announced Jingle, bringing in a tray loaded with cups and saucers, a tea pot, milk, lemon slices, a sugar bowl. A plate of cut sandwiches, another of biscuits, yet a third with slices of fine yellow cake. "Don't mind me, I'll be gone in an instant."

Harriet drew back and concentrated on her hands. Her fingers fine, narrow, a bit chapped from the cold air, for she had forgotten to bring her mittens. They sat in silence while Clara poured and sweetened their respective cups of tea. Harriet was glad to get both hands around her cup, propriety be damned. The door closed behind Jingle, leaving them alone once more.

"I..." began Clara. She looked down at her tea, said, "I hope you feel able to talk to me about anything and everything. You are my closest friend - my only friend - in this town. I could not bear if it if you were to leave me."

Startled, Harriet shook her head, touched Clara on the back of her wrist. "No, no! I could not bear it either!"

"So...we are still friends?"

"Yes, of course, of course!" Harriet wasn't quite sure what Clara meant, but she agreed to it anyway. She felt better. More in control of herself. The future looked brighter, now that she had a confidante. She was taking a sip of her just-cool-enough tea when there was an almighty slam of a door. She jerked, spilling tea onto her saucer and through some miracle, nothing on her dress.

"Clara! Clara, where are you?"

Clara stiffened and put her cup and saucer on the table. "We're in here!" she called, then said to Harriet, "That's Guillaume. I thought he was coming on Thursday, but I must have gotten my days confused. Guillaume, this is my friend, Mrs. Watson."

Mr. Lausier walked into the room and Harriet instantly took a strong dislike to him, for no particular reason at all. He was tall. He was not fat, but stocky, his clothes well filled out. From what Clara had said of him, Harriet had thought he was a man who had made his fortune young, so she was surprised to find a man of nearly sixty before her. He had white hair and piercing blue eyes, a narrow face with thin, bloodless lips. A scar along his jawline was white with age. Harriet, for once in her life unsure of whether she should stay or go, remained seated, even though every instinct within her was telling her to run. Again, for no particular reason. "Mr. Lausier, a pleasure to meet you, sir."

His gaze flicked over her quickly before he answered, "Madam."

"I thought you were returning on Thursday, otherwise I would have met you at the station," Clara said, standing up to offer him a kiss. 

He pulled away with the slightest wince. "Yes. I took an earlier train. My business concluded sooner than expected. By your accent I take it you are from England, Mrs. Watson. Have you been here long?"

"No, sir. Well, yes, I'm from England, London, actually. My husband is American and it was easier for him to conduct business over here than over there. He's a doctor, you see."

"Ah, a medical man," Mr. Lausier clasped his hands behind his back, continued staring at Harriet. "And is he successful in his practice?"

Harriet really did not like his tone or his accent, that Silas was a quack and that she was in desperate straits. Mother would have said she was making things up, finding reasons to dislike someone where there were none to begin with, yet Harriet was no fool. Just because she sometimes did not act on her gut didn't mean she did not pay attention to it. Mr. Lausier was giving her the willies, as Auntie Margaret would say. There was no way she was allowing this man to denigrate her or her family in front of her friend. "Silas has recently left for a medical conference abroad."

"Guillaume, Mrs. Watson and I have been attending many wonderful things. We are going to see Miss Dix next week, and hopefully Mr. Douglass, if the tickets have not already sold out. Will y-"

Mr. Lausier waved one hand, shook his head, clearly irritated by the litany of things they were doing, if not by the invitation itself. Harriet was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. She both wanted to provide Clara buffer as well as leave as quickly as she could. Her friend took importance over her own needs, however. The sherry she drank could wait until Eliza and Hartwell were asleep in their beds. "Clara, thank you for the tea," as soon as she said it she could have kicked herself; the tea in her cup had clearly barely been tasted. "Oh, do let me finish my cup, however. It _is_ delicious, reminds me of how my mother used to make it."

"Your mother made you tea? How provincial," drawled Mr. Lausier, his accent an odd combination of French and southern American, proof of just how much time he spent down there.

Oh, that was going too far! Harriet took her time in finishing her cup, thinking over what she was going to say in return. Clara was looking at her with a fixed smile on her face, while her hands were clasped together so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. "My mother was a generous woman who never took time away from her children, especially when we were ill."

Which was true. Mostly. Of course, she didn't take time away because of the laudanum she imbibed on a daily basis, along with copious amounts of tawny port, and the glasses of small beer. Even so, she did pay attention to John and Harriet and Cornelia, dosing them with whisky in their tea when they were poorly, sometimes when they weren't poorly, falling asleep by their bedsides after she had finished the cups, if not the pot. Most mornings, however, they had been fed scones and jam and weak tea with plenty of milk and sugar. 

She had grown used to coffee, however, living in America. Oh, people still enjoyed tea, it simply wasn't the drink of choice. She drained her cup. "I should let the two of you get reacquainted. Clara, I'll see you at the lecture?"

Clara nodded, stood and trailed Harriet to the door. "I'm sorry about Guillaume," she murmured softly, brows draw down. "He doesn't take kindly to company here at the house."

Harriet suspected Guillaume didn't take kindly to anything or any one, including his beautiful young wife. "Come to mine, next time."

Clara pressed Harriet's hand between her own, lightly squeezed. "Until then."


	2. Friends in Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter has a short but graphic scene of domestic violence. You'll know it when you get to it, and can either skip the next ten paragraphs, or you leave me a comment here and we'll try and do the email thang.

Harriet did not see Clara for the next month. Alone, she went to the Dorothea Dix lecture, and saw Mr. Douglass, who was a marvelous speaker, simply marvelous. Otherwise, she kept to herself, stayed at home and repaired the children's clothing. She let Martha go, too worried about the accounts to spend money, even though Martha provided a welcome break to her day. She visited Forbes, and returned to Callender's, and Terwilliger's. All the places she had been with Clara. 

Still, Clara did not appear.

Much time was left for Harriet to ruminate on what had happened between them, and what the consequences might be. In hindsight, there was little surprise that they had gotten along so well. Clara being from Virginia, whose inhabitants bore cool receptions from the New Englanders, and herself from England, who also got the same treatment from the locals, how else would they have found one another? Clara could not get used to the hard winters - though neither could Harriet, for that matter - and found the obsession with baked beans almost comical. 

Finally Harriet had to admit that if she wanted to see Clara again, she was going to have to visit the house. She thought about sending a letter, yet she was sure that if she did, Clara wouldn't see it. After all, it was entirely possible Clara had sent Harriet one, and she hadn't received it, either. Decision firmly made, one mild April afternoon, she told the children they were going to visit Auntie Clara, and off they went.

The streets were foul, the combination of yesterday's rain and the last few snowbanks melting into the streets provided a morass of mud, ice, horse manure, and of course the ever present broadsheets. It was over an hour's walk with two small children, stopping at every minor happenstance the children found of interest. By they time they got to Clara's house, Both of them were ready for a nap, and Harriet was not too far off of a nap, herself. When she reached the front door, she didn't knock so much as pound her fist against it.

The door opened to Jingle's suspicious face. She stared at Harriet, then the children, then silently stepped back and opened the door.

"Thank you, Jingle. Is your mistress home?" Harriet asked, blinking back sudden tears and hating the quavery note in her voice.

"She is, ma'am. I'll bring her along. Would the children like to have a cookie?" Jingle's expression softened as she looked at Hartwell.

"That would be fine, yes. Eliza, watch your brother."

"Ma'am, if you want to wait in the parlour...?"

Yes, she would sit before she fell. She left the children to Jingle's care, sitting on the sofa hard enough to raise a 'whump'. G-d, why was she feeling so emotional all of a sudden? She hadn't been turned away, so Clara still counted her as a friend. Rubbing one cold hand against her forehead, she leaned back and closed her eyes, desperate to find a modicum of quiet within herself before Clara arrived.

When Harriet opened her eyes again, it was to find herself in a warm, close, candle-lit room. She stretched her arms and legs, gave a tremendous yawn, and then lay still, blinking stupidly while she enjoyed the feeling of peace. Funny, she didn't recall making a stew for dinner, but it certainly smelled delicious. With a little grunt, she sat up, looked right, looked left, practically jumped off the sofa at the sight of Clara reading a book in the chair opposite.

"Ah, you're awake!" said Clara, putting her book down with a happy smile. "I trust you slept well?"

"The children?" 

"They're upstairs, sleeping quite soundly, if I may judge by the quality of the silence. "

Harriet did not know what to say. 

Clara put her book on the table and faced Harriet, her hands in her lap. Her dress was cream, and combined with the candle light and the way her hair was swept off her forehead, she looked like an angel from a painting, so ethereal. Harriet had to speak her mind. "I wanted to send a letter, but I wasn't sure if you would get it, so I thought I would bring the children because no one would turn away exhausted children with mud on their stockings," she finished in a rush.

"Of course I wouldn't," answered Clara, her voice low and trembling. "I'm glad you came, a letter wouldn't have been enough."

"I missed you," whispered Harriet, heartsick and footsore, all of the aches and pains she had been feeling for the past few weeks come to the fore.

Clara smiled, soft and wide and her eyes, oh, they glittered with unshed tears. 

But there was no more time to speak, for a great clatter was heard in the hallway before the children burst into the parlour. Harriet held her arms out and they crowded her, asking for kisses and hugs and in general demanding her utmost attention. She returned Clara's smile when she could, and that was the end of the time they had alone.

Over the ensuing weeks, as cool spring turned into warm summer, Harriet found herself meeting Clara most days, even to the detriment of the household. Oh, she wasn't taking money out to buy tickets to the opera or even anything remotely close to that. What she wasn't doing was working. Opportunities had arisen; tutoring the Van Draanen girls, teaching at Mrs. Dix's newly opened school for Negresses, the same for the Winthrop Orphanage for Girls, preparing the house for John, who had written and said he would arrive before the end of July.

One night, while Eliza and Hartwell were sleeping upstairs in one of the many spare bedrooms of Clara's house, and Jingle was doing whatever she did in the late evening, Harriet found herself clasping Clara to her breast, cradling her skull with one hand while holding her tightly around the waist with the other. She pulled back a little, to look at Clara's mouth, swollen from kissing, to unbind her hair and draw the silk of it through her fingers. She was greatly stirred from touching Clara, stirred in a way similar to how Silas touched her, though usually that was after their intimacies in the bed. It was different with Clara, too. Harriet was eager to touch Clara further, where she usually had enough once Silas was done. Enough of _his_ touch, anyway. In the early years of their marriage she had wondered if the lack was in her, or if this was how it was for all women. She understood, having overheard giggling conversations at various parties in London, that for some women this was not the case. That there was enjoyment and even wracking pleasure to be had with a man. No matter. She wanted to take Clara to bed, and show her how good it could be.

"What are you looking at?" asked Clara, eyes half-lidded in contentment.

"You," answered Harriet, punctuating her statement with a kiss at the end. "Just you."

"Mm. I should have Jingle prepare your bed."

Excitement thrilled through Harriet. She would be close to her beloved - oh yes, _beloved!_ \- even as she could not share the same bed with her. When John arrived, once he was settled in, she would endeavour to find a sitter for the children, or even maybe John would be willing to watch them for a few hours while she stole away and slept in Clara's bed, with Clara by her side. "Dangerous talk, Mrs. Lausier."

Clara kissed her again, and Harriet fell so deeply into the kiss that neither she nor Clara immediately realized there was someone else in the room. Without turning, Harriet chuckled. "Jingle, tell your mistress - "

From where she had bounced off the wall and onto the floor, Harriet blinked and saw Mr. Lausier standing above a cowering Clara, his fist raised. Before Harriet had a chance to get up, he felled Clara with a single swift slap. She hit the piano face first, crumpled to the floor and lay still. Mr. Lausier was speaking, and Harriet could barely understand a single word he said for the ringing in her ears. 

"You've _shamed_ me, Clara! _Me!_ I am the man who brought the railroad from New Orleans to Atlanta! I deserve a wife I can bring out in public, I will not have gossip mongers whispering wherever I go!" He shouted, finishing with a kick to her side which moved her almost under the piano. "You contemptible _bitch!_ You think you can cheat right in front of me? Damn you to hell for trying!" 

Shaking with fear, Harriet attempted to become one with the wall, watching while Clara's husband rained blow upon blow on her, stopping ever so often to collect his breath, using his feet instead of his hands. Clara was still throughout. Harriet needed to get help, she needed the police, somebody. Using the arm of the sofa, she leveraged herself to her feet using the arm of the sofa. 

_"Slut!"_ cried Mr. Lausier, stomping on Clara's arm.

Harriet began to inch along the wall, hoping she could escape and get a neighbor, if not the constabulary. How Mr. Lausier saw her move, she didn't know, but he was upon her in an instant. She screamed when he grabbed her by the shoulders, slamming her against the wall hard enough her vision went black for a moment. Dizzy, she blinked back at him, unable to shrink back from the spittle he was spraying as he reverted to his native French. His signet ring caught her cheek when he slapped her, adding a lightning sharp streak of pain to the ache in her neck as her head twisted to one side. 

And then he fell to the floor, silent apart from the sudden drumming of his boot heels on the wood.

Harriet stared at him for a second, almost unable to comprehend what had just happened. She looked up, to find Jingle breathing hard, holding an iron poker to one side with both hands. "J-Jingle - " she started, unsure of what to do.

Jingle licked her lips, glanced around the room. She stepped over Mr. Lausier, put the poker back into its holder. "You help Miss Clara, Miss Harriet. I'll get things started in here."

"S-started?" asked Harriet, blinking at Jingle in stupidity.

Jingle gave her a hard-eyed look. "You need to get Miss Clara into the kitchen. Splash water in her face. There are rags soaking by the fire, you make a vinegar pomander and put it under her nose. _Make her wake up!_. When you're done, get Miss Eliza and Master Hart - no!, leave them where they are. Yes," Jingle's brow furrowed as she thought. "Leave them where they are, I'll tell you when we're ready. Go!" she made a shooing motion.

Still dizzy, Harriet did as Jingle asked without thinking overmuch about it. She was happy to have someone tell her what to do. A minute later Clara was still unconscious when Harriet knelt at her side, the acrid scent of vinegar rising from the pomander she held. She patted Clara on the cheek and undid the top few buttons of her dress to allow her more air. "Clara! Clara you must wake up!" 

Jingle cursed loudly, and when Harriet looked over her shoulder, she saw that Jingle had grabbed both of Mr. Lausier's hands and was dragging him toward the fire. A thick trail of blood was smeared along the floor in his wake. His eyes were open wide and staring, and Harriet had the terrible feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. "Clara, Clara please! Wake up! Yes, yes my darling, it's me, you must wake up now!"

Clara let out the most piteous little mewl as Harriet urged her to sit up, and then to stand. "Come now, we have to go to the kitchen and get you cleaned up."

Harriet took most of Clara's weight on her shoulder as they stumbled towards the kitchen, Clara's head lolling on her shoulders. It was like old times in England, when John was at school and Harriet had to help Mother to her bed. But now the consequences were much more serious. The least that could happen to them was hanging at the Charles Street Jail. Assuming they weren't hung in the street, first.

By some miracle, though Clara had a bloody nose, she otherwise looked unmarked. Undoubtedly bruises were already appearing under her clothing, and there was nothing to be done about the black eyes to come, but that was fine, she could rest and recuperate at home with Harriet. They made it to the kitchen, where Clara collapsed onto the table's bench. Harriet crouched in front of her, running her hands over Clara's legs under the fabric of her dress, and feeling for any breaks. Thank G-d for John and his old medical texts. He hadn't come often come home, and had mocked her mercilessly for any interest she expressed in anything academic. 

"Did I ever tell you that I briefly attended university?" prattled Harriet, gently squeezing Clara's sides. "The University of John Watson, no relation to my husband, which was convenient for me. My brother, on the rare occasions he would come home, would be a great show off and tell me of what he learned. One day," she said, roughly wiping the blood covering Clara's mouth and chin away with the pomander. The stink of it was overpowering and she decided it had served its purpose. Swiftly walking to the sink, she poured water from the bucket over the cloth, squeezed it out over the hearth bricks.

"One day I fell off my Uncle's horse. Eric's skittish, and I shouldn't have been riding him at all. Uncle birched me later on that night. Anyway, John felt my leg and hip, pronounced me bruised but fine. Of course I made him show me what I was looking for, after that," G-d, she was babbling nonsense. Harriet surveyed her work critically. There was nothing more to be done, except get Clara a bath as soon as possible. It was too late to heat water, but surely Jingle wouldn't mind, she was going to have to wash the parlour floor before morning, anyway. Harriet would help Clara with the bath, the children would - the children! Harriet knocked her chair over in her lunge for the stairs. 

She raced down the hallway and, clutching her skirts with both hands, went as quickly as she could to the first landing. As she turned the corner, she happened to glance up only to see Eliza's tear stained face staring back down at her. 

"Eliza!" she called. "Everything is fine, sweetheart!" Harriet swept Eliza into her arms and held her so tightly Eliza began to complain. Keeping her tears of relief at bay, she tucked the loose strands of fine blonde hair away from her daughter's face, managed to smile in what she hoped was reassurance. "Sounds like Hartwell is still sleeping."

"Yes, Hartwell didn't wake up, but I did. Mama, can we go now?" asked Eliza, holding Harriet's hand tightly.

Harriet allowed herself a moment to simply look at her daughter, allowed herself to see that she was all right, that she had no idea what had happened downstairs.

Eliza frowned, touched Harriet's chin. "Mama, you're bleeding on your lip!"

"Oh," she said, blotting her mouth with her sleeve. Definitely blood, no mistaking that. And yes, she had been tasting copper in her mouth for some time. "I was eating an apple and I bit my lip so hard I've started to bleed. That was silly of Mama, wasn't it!"

Eliza nodded solemnly. Harriet stood up, kept hold of Eliza's hand. "Well, let's get you back to bed. We're going to have an early start in the morning, because I want to get back home, too."

Hartwell was sleeping hard in all of his little boy glory in the bed he and Eliza were sharing, flat on his back, arms over his head as usual. His little face was angelic in the moonlight streaming through the window, and oh, how Harriet wished she was seeing this at home instead of here. Eliza whined a little, as was only to be expected, and Harriet, though desperate to get back downstairs, stayed with the children for a few minutes, until she was assured Eliza was asleep. Stealing away on tip toe, she left the door open a crack before returning to the kitchen.

"Thank g-d the stairs don't creak," she said softly to Clara and Jingle, who were sitting at the table. The sharp smell of sweet alcohol was in the air, much to Harriet's surprise. Clara had always claimed to abstain, yet the glass in front of her, and the cup in front of Jingle held fingers of...she sniffed again - bourbon. "Oh, Clara..."

Clara's face was beginning to swell. Her eyelids were puffy, and one cheek had a livid red mark upon it, not quite in the shape of a shoe's sole. Harriet reached forward to touch, thought better of it at the last moment. Biting her lip (and reopening the cut upon it) Harriet settled onto a spare chair and waited for someone to speak. When she realized they were waiting for her, she looked at Jingle. "What are we going to do now?"

Jingle tossed back the entirety of her bourbon, swallowing with effort and blinking back tears at the same time. After, she held one hand to her chest, coughed. "We need to get rid of the body."

"How are we going to do that? Don't the Night Watch come through? They'll see us dragging a body out of the house!"

"No they won't, because that's not what we're going to do," said Jingle, looking at Clara firmly before cutting side-eying Harriet. "We're going to burn down the house."

Harriet stared back at her in horrified silence. "Burn..."

"Yes," croaked Clara. She pressed one finger along the growing dark marks at her throat, visible where Harriet had unbuttoned her dress. "I'll not have us hang."

"But...how? It's almost the middle of May, no one's going to believe such a thing!"

Jingle shook her head. "No one's going to care how the fire started so long as _their_ house is unharmed. I've dragged the body into the parlour...no, best you come look."

"I don't think you should come, Clara," said Harriet. She wished she knew where to touch Clara where she wouldn't hurt her.

"Quite the contrary," said Jingle, her mouth upturned at once corner. "Of all of us, she should see him."

Staring back at Jingle, Clara nodded. She got to her feet without saying anything else, the swish of her skirt loud to Harriet's ears. In a daze, Harriet followed the other two women out of the kitchen and into a scene straight from hell. The pretty parlour had been transformed into a den of death. Rather, it was the dichotomy between the two that was so terrible to see. Ochre yellow walls and lovely dark furniture upholstered in jewel blue fabric contrasted with sticky smears of blood appearing almost black in the low light. It was still wet, the blood, and tacky as well. Jingle had brought Mr. Lausier to the edge of the mantle, laying his head down on the corner of the marble fireguard. Harriet could have kicked herself a moment later. Harriet frowned. She shook her head. No, didn't make any sense. A broken bottle of bourbon and a shattered glass lay on the marble, too, and then she got it. She already knew what to say when the Police and Night Watch would come around.

"Mr. Lausier was drinking heavily," she said, moving around the room to demonstrate the entirely fictional events of the night. 

"A business in New Orleans had failed, a business he was personally invested in, and he had lost a lot of money," added Clara hoarsely, staring at the body with no expression at all.

"He was drunk," said Jingle. "Drunk, and shouting at everyone. He frightened the children, and when Mrs. Lausier asked him to be more quiet, he hit her."

"I witnessed this with my own eyes," said Harriet, coming closer to the body, making sure not to step in the bloody trail. "But then he turned his attentions to me. He hit me hard enough for me to lose consciousness, and when I awoke I went upstairs to be with my children and wait for the morning to come."

"I went to bed," said Clara.

"I checked to see if he needed anything, and then I went to bed," said Jingle.

"I smelled smoke," said Harriet. "I needed to use the water closet and when I opened the door the hallway was black with smoke. I collected the children and we made our way outside - "

"How did you get outside?" asked Clara, her lively eyes dull and barely visible as the swelling had well and truly begun.

"You broke a window and climbed out onto the roof of the ell," answered Jingle. "Then you lowered the children down, one at a time, and then you jumped onto the ground."

"I saw the house was fully on fire - no, I knocked on Clara's door until she opened it, and then I broke the window," corrected Harriet with a head bob. "I climbed onto the roof and helped Eliza and Hartwell out, then slid to the edge of the roof and let go. I was lucky that I didn't break my ankle or leg. Clara held Hartwell and jumped, after I caught Eliza. She was very scared, and very brave."

"How did the fire happen?" asked Jingle, looking back and forth between Harriet and Clara. "It must have happened like this: He tended towards being cold, and was very drunk when we last saw him. In the process of loading the wood into the fire, he must have lost his balance or something, tripped and fallen against the marble edge of the mantle. Look, you can feel the soft spot in his skull. When he fell, he spilled the bourbon, and it leaked towards the fire, and then his sleeve caught fire, too. He burned to death without any of us noticing," finished Jingle. 

"The fire was very hot," intoned Clara, picking up the poker Jingle had used earlier. She used it to get a log from the fire that was blazing, drew it towards the spilled bourbon. It flared up immediately, forcing all three of them back. 

They waited as long as they could.

As the smoke began to thicken, they withdrew to the hallway, closing the door after themselves.

Harriet's nerves were singing in her veins to _escape Escape ESCAPE_ , as the crackle and snap of the fire grew louder. The door began to smoke, little wisps of dirty air coming out of the quarter panels. She shifted from foot to food as black smoke suddenly puffed out from underneath the door. It crept up into their faces, forcing them to use their handkerchiefs to cover their noses. Harriet could barely breathe in the drifts of smoke wafting down the hallway. The heat coming off of the door was tremendous and the center frame was beginning to char.

The heat was driving them back, and when the roar of the fire abruptly increased, Harriet had had enough. She whirled and ran up the stairs, Clara following, albeit more slowly. Harriet didn't have time to wait. The haze of smoke upstairs had her coughing rough, and she wasted no time getting the children out of bed and to the witches window above the ell. 

"It's nailed shut!" Clara said, relinquishing the bottom of the window and rapped at the glass hesitantly instead, but Harriet did not care for being dainty. Without hesitation she pushed Clara out of the way, picking up her skirts to kick the corner of the window. The pane broke nicely, and Harriet continued on until most of the glass was out. By now Eliza was crying and Hartwell screaming for her, so she was more than glad to carefully crawl out on the peak of the roof.

"Go on, I'll get them to you!" cried Clara, glancing down the stairs.

Harriet tried to remember where the flagstone walk was, failed miserably, and finally just decided to slide down and face unknown consequences. She kept her slide slow and controlled, and utterly panicked when her legs dropped over the ledge. G-d, oh g-d, she was at the edge now, with no way to change her mind. She could feel the heat on her legs, and the noise! 

She let go and dropped.

Landed awkwardly on her feet and continued on to her rear, hard. She immediately got staggered to her feet, to be ready to catch Hartwell, whom Clara was already scooting down the roof. Now that she was on the ground, Harriet could see how much of the house was compromised. The parlour was a wall of flame, and smoke was puffing out of the eaves. Flames were also licking up the window in the hallway of the ell where it attached to the main house, which surprised her. For some reason she had simply assumed the fire would contain itself to the parlour, which was ridiculous. Now she was worried about the fire she couldn't see, and if the ell roof was about to fall in.

Had there been snow on the ground the heat would be lovely, but now it was burning her skin where it was exposed. Shielding her face with her upper arm, she approached the ell and held out both arms. "Eliza! Come to Mama! Mama's going to catch you!"

Eliza screamed in terror, and Harriet hardened her heart. Now was not the time to panic, she had to remain calm or else they would all perish.

Clara crouched awkwardly, holding Hartwell to her tightly with one arm, and keeping a firm grip on Eliza with the other. Together they inched toward the edge, Eliza sobbing, Hartwell's cries easily audible above the sound of the fire. There was a terrific crash, and flames abruptly shot through the roof of the main house. Finally Clara let Eliza go, urging her towards Harriet, who was nearly underneath where Eliza was going to jump. And jump, she did.

First Eliza hit Harriet, the force of the impact so great it knocked Harriet straight back onto the ground. She hugged Eliza tight to her, forcing the darkness to recede from her vision. She had no time to faint, she had things to do! "Okay, sweetheart, Mama's got to catch Auntie Clara and Hartwell, now! You've got to let Mama up!"

"Nooo!" wailed Eliza, and it took all of Harriet's remaining strength to sit up and push her beloved first child off of her lap, peeling her small hands from her shoulders. 

"Mama will be right back, Mama's not going anywhere, all right?" Harriet bent over to look Eliza straight in the eye. "You'll be able to see Mama from right here. Don't you _dare_ move!"

But when she turned around, it was to find Clara already down and hobbling towards her, Hartwell still in her arms. He was reaching out for Harriet with one little arm, and she took him gladly, hugging Clara in the process. "Come, this way."

Together they stumbled away from the house, heading towards the drive where, away from the noise of the fire, they could hear the bells of the fire company, the barking of dogs. Now they would find out if their ruse was successful, or if they were to hang. 

As they rounded the front of the house, Jingle rushed to them, her face streaming with tears. But when Jingle spoke, she sounded like her normal self. "Took you long enough. Wasn't sure you'd gotten out."

Harriet nodded, turning back to the house, which was now fully engulfed. "The fire moved much faster than I thought it would."

"Yes," said Clara. "I've never seen anything like it."

"But Miss Eliza and Master Hartwell are safe," Jingle bent down and tweaked Eliza's nose, brushed one hand over Hartwell's gold cap of white blond hair.

"As are we all. Now look sharp, the Night Watch is here," said Clara. 

Not only the Night Watch and the Fire Brigade, but what neighbors were closest and had come to help, having heard the bells and the dogs and smelled the smoke. Harriet felt almost as if she were in some strange dream. She was both utterly exhausted yet wide awake, jumping at the slightest movement at the corner of her eye. The nearest neighbor, Mr. Clarke, was most adamant they spend the rest of the night at his home, but Harriet had had enough. She wanted to go home, no matter how long it might take to get there, and no matter how much pain she was in. She was sure she had twisted either an ankle or a knee, her jaw hurt, her neck and back were sore and spiked with pain when she moved in certain ways. On the other hand, Clara was far worse off than she, yet she was still continuing on. Maybe Harriet was being too stubborn on the matter. "Clara," she said lowly, "Should we stay with Mr. Clarke?"

"No," replied Clara, looking at her with eyelids so swollen Harriet wasn't quite sure she could actually see out of them. "I am in a great deal of pain, yes, but I would rather be where we can all be comfortable. I don't want to impose upon anyone's hospitality."

Mr. Clarke spluttered, but Clara sent him off with a few more polite words, agreeing to meet for dinner at some point in the near future. He did insist upon sending them back via wagon, for which Harriet was profoundly grateful. She simply could not carry Hartwell and Eliza both, although perhaps Jingle could? Harriet looked at her in the lamp light and decided no, Jingle might be very good at carrying water far lengths, but that was quite different from carrying a child.

The wagon was ordered, and shortly thereafter they were on their way home, with their address taken by the police for further questioning in the morning.

Dawn had broken when they pulled up to the house, the infinite black taken over dull, overcast, flat grey.Over the next few days they did nothing but recover. They were interviewed by the police, and several writers for the local papers came to the door, too. When Harriet tired of answering their questions, she shut the door and refused to answer it any more apart from Dr. Collins, who soon decided that back door was the optimal entrance. Remarkably, perhaps miraculously, Clara's injuries were less severe than Harriet had assumed. She was badly bruised, but her stays had protected her ribs and innards from Mr. Lausier's kicks. Even the blows to her arms hadn't broken the bones, and though her poor face was still black and blue, she was expected to make a full recovery in time. They all kept coughing from inhaling the smoke, however, with little Hartwell taking the brunt of it. He was listless for weeks, yet eventually got better enough to play outside

The fire had burned so hotly that little remained of the house apart from fused nails and puddles of melted glass. Though the three of them waited with no small amount of terror, Mr. Lausier's body was also gone. Harriet suggested to one of the reporters that he had left for California, smitten by tales of gold. After all, her husband had done the same only a few months before.

Jingle remained with them. There was no choice, for Clara had no rights over her. She was still technically Mr. Lausier's property, and the law would see her as such until it was changed. Harriet gave her the run of the rooms on the third floor (which her mind kept insisting was the second, much to everyone's confusion). 

In a stunning turn of events, Harriet was shocked to discover that Clara could dip into her husband's accounts at will. The fact that she always looked unfashionable was simply down to economics; at heart, Clara didn't spend money if she didn't have to. It meant that for the present, Harriet didn't have to worry about taking a position to earn a living. more to the point, Clara was willing to add her money to the household accounts.

They were well into their routine, the fire and Mr. Lausier's disappearance not forgotten, exactly, so much as shoved to the back of their minds. They had pleasant days and nights. Even Jingle was far more relaxed, though she was not a free woman. Clara had had some trouble with Mr. Lausier's attorney, and was forced to hire a lawyer of her own. The matter at hand, namely: who was in charge while Mr. Lausier was 'away' - and wasn't Mr. Phelps a suspicious fellow, with his client not having written him a letter and instructing him in the ways of what he wanted to do with his money. All he lacked was evidence that Clara had done wrongdoing where his client was concerned - was resolved with a few broad strokes of a pen. Mr. Phelps was assured that Clara had no intent on removing large sums from the bank, and for her turn, Clara was safe in the knowledge that she would always have access to the money until the day her husband returned. Harriet was worried, however. She hadn't liked how Mr. Phelps had looked her over from head to toe, the disdain and suspicion terrible to see. 

So it was with some surprise that one warm afternoon, while she and Clara sat outside on the patio of their small garden, watching the children play stick and ball, Jingle announced a visitor. Harriet was in a happy, generous mood, and told Jingle to bring their guest through instead of to the parlour. She stood and stretched, glanced at Clara, who lay on the chaise longue reading _Madame Bovary_ , smoothed her dress, and turned expectantly to the door. Where she saw her big brother step down onto the patio with a slight smile, blinking in the strong sunlight. "John!" she shrieked, and launched herself into his arms.

"You look good," she said, holding him at arms length. She was not lying, as such. He did look good, if much older than the boy she had last seen, weaving his way back to the station, bag held firmly over his shoulder. She had been so sure that was the last time she would see him. There were more lines in his face, and his hair had gone from dark to...she didn't even know if that mix of grey and brown and blond had a name. 

He wobbled over to the chair and sat down stiffly, waited a few moments before smiling up at her again. "You look fantastic, yourself. America agrees with you."

She shrugged, grabbed his hand and pressed it to her lips. She let it back down again and took the other free chair at the table, ignoring the debris field of tea and cake left by the children. "Clara, this is my brother, John Watson."

Clara popped up, reaching out to shake John's hand. "Very pleased to meet you at last!" 

"Likewise," said John.

"Well, I'm going to disappear and leave the two of you to chat," said Clara, getting her book. "Oh, I am _so_ glad you've come. Harriet has been missing you terribly. And now that I've embarrassed her, it's time for me to go. Oh!"

Harriet failed to say anything once Clara was gone. For a long time she merely looked at John, drinking in the sight of his dear face, how it had aged from pain and grief. She didn't know what his experiences had been, but it was clear some of them had been terrible. "Are you all right?"

"Ah, that's a good question," he said, glancing away from her gaze. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You never met Mary, but you would have liked her, I think."

"I'm sorry, John. I wish I could have met her."

He shrugged. "Has you heard anything from Mr. Watson?" John made a face, shook his head. 

"Yes," she answered with a knowing look. "Call him Silas, it won't turn your head around so much, otherwise."

"He's coming back, then?"

"No. I've heard nothing since he left, and I don't think I will, either. I...it's just a feeling. He's not coming back," Harriet wasn't going to go into details with him concerning her marriage, yet neither was she going to pretend she missed Silas.

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he'll come back with his pockets filled with gold."

"I don't need gold, I'm happy as I am."

They fell into a companionable silence. Harriet turned her face to the sun for a brief moment, enjoying the warmth of the day. She thanked G-d that everyone she knew and loved was hale and hearty. 

"Does your offer still stand?" 

"Yes, of course," she answered without thinking, before remembering exactly what she had offered in the first place. "Yes, absolutely! I can't tell you how many people have asked when Silas is returning. They need a doctor here. And there's no need for you to live anywhere else, either, as long as you don't mind Hartwell and Eliza. Clara, too."

"Oh, your friend is staying here?"

Which is when she realized that John didn't know what had happened. She launched into the tale, ending with Mr. Lausier heading to California. There was no need for one more person to be in on the secret. 

"I'm surprised he just up and left Mrs. Lausier to her own means," he said.

"Well, Silas felt free to leave me a note with no other warning, so I don't see why Clara's husband, or any other, for that matter, shouldn't do the same. It's what men do," she snapped

He blinked back at her, slowly nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," she said, trying to calm herself. John was her brother and not deserving of her ire. "I've learned much since moving to this country."

"So I understand."

Jingle finally came out with a tray of tea, much to Harriet's relief. They chatted about other, lighter topics, such as the politics back home, friends who still lived in the area, what was happening with the rest of the family.

"Now that I'm fed and watered, do I get to see the office?" asked John.

Harriet felt like a right idiot. "Oh John, I don't know where my head is, some times. I'll show you the lot, and then you can decide which room you'd like."


	3. Fallen Women

"Hello, I've come to see the girls," Harriet said anxiously, because this was her idea, and if Susannah was unhappy, it would all be Harriet's fault, because it was her idea to place them here in the first place.

"Mrs. Watson, of course! Do come in - "

Mrs. Holbrook was a round-cheeked little woman with a no-nonsense attitude and such a bustling, cheerful disposition that Harriet half-hated her. She dreaded seeing Mrs. Holbrook, while at the same time always finding herself inexplicably in a better mood whenever she left the woman's presence. It had been Diana Norton who had first warned her off at the Temperance meeting last May.

"She's terrible," Diana had whispered, covering what she was saying with her fan against her cheek. "Takes in any strays that show up at her door, human or animal."

Diana was a busybody, always with some piece of gossip to hand - usually true, for that matter - and though Harriet skirted the edges of Diana's social circle, she was still drawn in from time to time. Mostly she feared being on the receiving end of Diana's sharp tongue. 

A few weeks after their trip to Virginia, Harriet had lain awake one night, desperately trying to think of a way to get Susannah out of the house. And not because she wasn't a nice girl, not at all. It was just that someone had to think of John's reputation, for he certainly gave it no mind. If he lived elsewhere, there would be no problem. But he did not, and an unmarried man living in the same house as an unwed girl who was also with child? Absolutely not. The solution presented itself in the wee hours after hearing two cats squalling in the street. Strays - and Harriet recalled Diana's words. 

The very next day she called upon Mrs Holbrook and explained the situation. Arrangements were made, for by fortune, Mrs. Holbrook had no other tenants in. Of course, that very night John had brought home two strays of his own, that beautiful young girl from the south, Perrine, and her friend Clementine, whose native Boston accent and high pitched, nasal voice grated on Harriet's last nerve. Over the course of a few hours, Susannah had become besotted with them both, and agreed to go to Mrs. Holbrook's so long as Clemmie and Perrine joined her there.

Mrs. Holbrook's house was quiet, much quieter than Harriet expected. 

"The girls are painting in the parlour, and have improved greatly since they've arrived," said Mrs. Holbrook, glancing over her shoulder at Harriet as she led the way down the hall.

The house was a bit old fashioned in Harriet's opinion. Plain white walls, plain furniture with the odd blue and white China vase atop it, a few paintings on the walls, pewter candlesticks here and there. Mrs. Holbrook wore a dark gray dress with ivory trim at the wrists and collar, even her hair was in a plain bun without a single braid to enliven it. She was rather the epitome of Jane Eyre, it's living representative even though her fashion was wrong for the book. 

"I hope that is to your satisfaction?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Harriet answered with a start. Daydreaming, she had to stop it. "The arts will always be to a gentlewoman's favour."

"I'm so glad you agree!" Mrs. Holbrook's smile was pleased, and, as usual, Harriet immediately felt better. "There are some who say that a woman's education in arithmetic and history is more important, yet what is she marries a man who disagrees? How will she comport herself if she is housebound?"

Harriet nodded, because that was only the truth.

"Ladies, you have a visitor!" announced Mrs. Holbrook, opening an unremarkable door and sweeping through.

Harriet followed, and was startled by the scene before her. She had imagined the girls painting watercolors on a sheet of scrap paper, the subject flowers in a jar, perhaps. Instead, their subject was a vase of Chinoiserie nearly as tall as herself, and they were wearing smocks well stained from oil paint. Given that there were two windows on two walls, which were themselves washed white, the room was bright and airy and Harriet wished she had had something similar when she had been their age. A room like this would have made her own paintings so much better for being able to see what she was doing. Oddly, an upright piano had been pushed against the near wall, and a book of music was open on the bench.

"Hello," Harriet said. All three girls were staring at her around their easels. They looked clean and tidy, though Clementine was frowning. "I just came to see how you were doing."

"We are doing very well, thank you," said Clementine, obviously making an effort to tame her accent.

"I'm glad to hear it, " Harriet replied, feeling stiff and awkward. She should have brought Clara with her, Clara had a natural talent for introducing herself to people.

Silence reigned until Mrs. Holbrook motioned towards Perrine, who was looking even prettier than before. "Would you care to see their work?"

Not really. Harriet dutifully looked at Clementine's work first, finding what she expected, a mis-shapen blob of blue and white, vaguely case shaped. She nodded and gave an encouraging hum before Mrs. Holbrook moved her on to Perrine. The real surprise was the painting, which was quite accomplished for a girl of Perrine's age and education. Well, presumed education. Someone had taken the time to train Perrine in the proper use of oil paint. Harriet was impressed despite herself. As for Susannah...her painting was of the more homely variety. She clearly held little interest in the finer arts, but she had made a decent effort.

"Very well done, all of you!" said Harriet, looking at each of them in turn

"Art ain't my thing," said Clementine, clearly forgetting any effort she had made at speaking properly. 

"P'rhaps not," said Mrs. Holbrook, coming to stand next to Clementine and squeeze her shoulder. "But your sewing and needlework is exemplary."

Clementine beamed at Harriet, who promptly felt guilty for the previous thoughts about the girl. 

Mrs. Holbrook smiled and stepped toward the door. "Come, let's have tea."

Harriet gratefully took it for the command it was and allowed herself to be escorted to a plain, but comfortably appointed sitting room. She took a seat on the sofa, Susannah next to her, Perrine perching on the chair opposite, while Clementine wandered to the fireplace to poke at the coals with an iron. For whatever reason she found herself even more inexplicably nervous. 

"Is Clara coming?" Susannah asked, her hands clasped in her lap.

Harriet was slow to answer, distracted by the straining buttons on Susannah's jacket, the looseness of her stays.The bulge of her belly above her folded hands. "...Yes. Not today, she had an…appointment."

Oh, that was a pathetic response, and a lie, too, because Clara had no idea Harriet was here. Clara had been most obstreperous at breakfast, and even John had been so annoyed he had taken Mr. Holmes off to his office. Not only that, but Jingle's single raised eyebrow had been enough to send Harriet out of the house entirely. It was far too early to stop and get a drink of cocoa with a shot of brandy for this chill day, and given that she had left the house without itinerary, she had found herself simply going for a long walk. The fact that her feet had brought her to Mrs. Holbrook's was mere chance.

"Are Eliza and Hartwell happy?"

"They're fine. They miss you, and can't wait to see you again."

Susannah looked gratified by Harriet's answer, which was good. Now that Harriet was here, she really had no idea what to talk about. 

"I'm learning how to play the piano," announced Clementine, moving away from the window to elbow Susannah and make her move over so she could sit down on the sofa, too. "Mrs. Holbrook says I am improving every day."

Perrine snorted indelicately. 

"What?"

"Practicing would help."

Clementine shook her head. "I'm getting better every time I play."

Eager to stop the bickering, Harriet focused her attention on Susannah and the burning question that had started keeping Clara up at night. She kept her voice low when she spoke. "We still wish to keep the child, Susannah. What say you?"

Susannah paled and looked down at her hands. It was enough to draw Perrine and Clementine's attention.

"She don't want to be around her shame," said Clementine boldly. "She's a good girl, she don't need a baby hanging around her neck."

"She can keep it if she wants, right, Mrs. Watson?" asked Perrine, staring hard at Harriet.

"Well, it's complicated - " started Harriet, when Mrs. Holbrook came back into the room bearing a tea tray.

"Mrs. Watson, do you take milk or lemon?"

"Lemon, please, thank you, with two sugars" replied Harriet, shifting a little, as the sofa was far less comfortable than it looked.It was, in fact, incredibly hard. Little wonder it still looked new. Something was poking into her leg - oh! 

"Here you are," said Mrs. Holbrook, handing her a cup with a spoon balanced on the saucer. 

"Susannah, I forgot to mention the intent of my visit," Harriet carefully held the cup in one hand and dug the book out of the pocket of her coat with the other. "I saw this and thought of you."

Susannah took it, flipped through it with a curious look. "But it's blank?"

Harriet nodded. "Yes, it's a diary. You can write anything you want in it. Likes, dislikes, happy or sad thoughts. I started one when I was eleven and kept it until I was twenty-two. Then I was too busy to write in it any more," which was a lie, but Susannah didn't need to know that.

"What a lovely thought," added Mrs. Holbrook. She sat primly on one of the chairs next to the sofa.

"It is, thank you," Susannah solemnly intoned. 

Like a lead balloon, Harriet thought to herself. At least she had done what she promised; visited Susannah, made sure she was all right. Made sure she had done the right thing by the girl. So why did she still feel guilty? 

The house was quiet when she returned, and she was grateful. Undoubtedly the children were with Clara, and John was probably being a doctor somewhere, and Jingle was out, now was an excellent time to go upstairs and search among her things for the diary she had written so long ago. How strange that bringing Susannah a diary would trigger such a strong desire to re-read her own. 

It took a few minutes to dig through the trunk at the foot of her bed. Most of it was filled with spare blankets, what remained of Eliza and Hartwell's baby clothing, her wedding dress. Below all of that, however, were the bundle of letters and the three volumes she had kept from the time she was a young girl through her passage to Boston. Taking the middle one in hand, she sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at it. If she had known then what she knew now, oh, maybe her entire life would be completely different.

She fondled the worn brown leather of the book, wondering if it would be worth while to keep another one. She could record the day to day lives of the children, and keep dates for Clara. It would be good to have a private accounting of their lives. The book was so innocuous, lying closed on her hand, as light as ever. A wave of ennui passed over her and she lay down without a seconds thought, the diary clutched to her chest. What was it that she had written...could she even remember what the opening line was? It had been 1848, or maybe 1849 when she had bought it from Mr. Reeves. 

The summer she had turned seventeen. 

The summer she had met Jemima.

 

~*~oOo~*~

 

 _Diary of a Mad Woman, 23 May, 1849_ she wrote, giggling to herself.

"Harriet, come down for your dinner!"

"Yes, Mother," she called back, just loudly enough to be heard, maybe. Mother had yet to reach the slurring stage - she was making an effort, apparently - giving Harriet an hour's grace, or so. On the other hand, Sara was an old gossip and it was likely best to get her out of the house before Mother truly began to deepen her cups.

Closing the diary, she took a moment to feel its burgundy leather cover. A surprise gift from John, who would not be coming home for his break, the lucky sod. She giggled again at the curse. She had overheard it in the market, and could hardly believe her own daring at even repeating it to herself. Easy for him. He was going to Paris then Bologna for 'medical lectures', of which she was in serious doubt. Any 'lecturing' doing was probably going to be by pretty barmaids in pubs. 

"Harriet Watson!"

Harriet hastily put the book under her pillow and fled the safety of her room.

Downstairs, Mother was flitting between kitchen and dining room, alternately bothering a clearly harried Sarah. Spying Harriet, she hissed, "Mr. Goddard is in the sitting room with Mr. Andrews! Go entertain them while I get extra plates and things!"

Harriet duly left, wondering what on earth Mother was talking about. Sarah would fix it all if Mother simply left her to it. Besides, the Vicar had made it her his business, for reasons she supposed were kind, even though he irritated her for no particular reason at all. No, she knew, he was _sanctimonious_ , as John had once said. And as much of a busybody as Sarah, truth be told.

"Miss Harriet, how good of you to join us," said Mr. Goddard, getting to his feet as soon as she came in the room. "This is Mr. Andrews, you may remember him from the church fete last year?"

Oh, Harriet indeed remembered him, and not kindly. Mr. Andrews was the type of gentleman who considered himself above everyone else, without any to prove why. He was not learned, nor did he come from a good family, merely being wealthy by birth. And not only was he irritating, she had seen him be mean to Lizzie Baker, simply because she was slow and talked a bit funny. What kind of person made fun of someone in front of them, just because they could? He had left Lizzie in floods of tears, and Lizzie was the sweetest person Harriet knew. Yes, she could be annoying about it, but no one could hold a grudge against Lizzie, no one.

Besides, Mr. Andrews had stupid hair. It was too long in the back and the front flopped over his forehead. What was more, his wore his beard to a ridiculous length, and his mustachios were waxed and curling practically back to his ears!

"Miss Watson," Mr. Andrews half rose out of his seat to bow in her direction.

Harriet allowed Mr. Goddard to slide her chair out before sitting down. "Vicar, Mr. Andrews."

"Your dear Mother was wondering if you wanted to be on the committee to beautify the church for the Sunday service," said Mr. Goddard, leaning back and smiling widely at her.

Dear god, she could not _stand_ the man. 

She refused to answer, staring at the small stain on the lace tablecloth instead.

"Here we are!"

Her mother sounded just a touch hysterical, an edge to her voice that could be read as perky if one knew her only in passing. Harriet could tell she was on the verge of her self control, however, and wondered what it had been that had made her start so early in the day. Usually the sherry was not touched until the afternoon, nor the whisky.

"Harriet will be happy to help," said Mother, putting the tray of tiny pastries on the table. There was sweat along her hairline, and Harriet wondered if perhaps she could fake fainting and be taken back to her room. 

"Good, good. Now, Mrs. Watson, do tell us what is in these delightful treats?"

Mother promptly took over the discussion, leaving Harriet to stew. Oh, she managed to be polite, yet having been volunteered as window dresser, she found it difficult to think of anything beyond all the other things she would rather be doing. Such as weeding, or walking in the driving rain, or milking a cow in an ice storm. Thankfully Mr. Andrews paid her as little attention as she did to him.


	4. Diary of a Mad Woman

By mid-May, summer had fully arrived, and with it, a new round of illness for Mother.

"I'm too ill," Mother said crossly, emphasizing the point with one hand to her forehead and a dramatic falling back upon the sofa cushions. "You'll have to go without me."

Harriet blinked, hardly able to believe her luck. The Wednesday Market? On her own?

"Sarah knows what she's to need, but I want some other things," she said, waving her hand at the fireplace mantle. "I want a box of lavender pastilles from Cowper's, and a something with chocolate."

"Bonbons?"

"Yes, that shall do nicely. "

Giddy with excitement, Harriet somehow managed to retrieve the coins without undue haste. She was eager to collect the two shillings John had sent her at Christmas. Oh, she could buy something for herself without anyone looming over her shoulder! Sarah might give her the eye, but Harriet was fairly sure the woman would hold her tongue. Fairly sure.

Once in town, Harriet lingered at the edge of acceptable distance while Sarah did the necessary shopping. She knew exactly where she wanted to go, but Sarah was adamant that Harriet stay in sight at all times. It was very annoying. 

Eventually Sarah was done and Harriet practically took her by the hand to drag her to the book shop. Helen Peters had written and told her to buy a copy of _The Castle of Otranto_ , which was a very daring and exciting romance. Older, which made the likelihood of Harriet finding it better.

The bookshop was not a place Harriet frequented. Not through her own choice, but Mother's. Reading would ruin her mind! Reading would keep eligible men away from the table! Reading would introduce her to things no proper young lady should know! Only when John accompanied her was she allowed inside, nay, _encouraged_ inside. 

Mr. Reeves was at his desk, opening a letter, when Harriet came in. Sarah had begged off on joining her so she could sit outside and gossip with Josie and Ellie Tanner. 

"Ah, Miss Watson," said Mr. Reeves, looking at her over his glasses. He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. "What can I do for you today?"

"I'm just looking," she said, because Mr. Reeves had a habit of looming while a person tried seeing if they liked a book or not. 

"Ah, well, just let me know if you find anything to your taste."

He also had terrible habit of saying 'ah' and whistling tunelessly while he shelved books. Although 'shelved' was also a misnomer. Yes, shelves lined the walls, but the center of the room had stacks of books on tables, on chairs, even on the floor. 

Harriet turned her back to him, lingering in front of the store behind a round table stuck in a bay window's alcove. A shame there were no chairs, the light was good enough to read by. She flipped through several titles, but none caught her attention. 

Mr. Reeves kept the cheapest books up front, on a round table in the bay of the window, and stacked willy-nilly on and around the bookcases lining the walls. They tended to be older works, less serious that the poetry he collected, and of course she had no interest in the academic tomes. Ah, there was _The Caste of Otranto_. It lay atop a novel called _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ , which at only 6p was certainly coming home with her. Below that was a thick volume with a warped cover and pages stiff from water damage. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , for only 3p. She had heard of it, and decided to take it along as well. Now she had entertainment as well as money leftover on her coin purse. 

Small stack of books in hand, she approached Mr. Reeves and a woman who had come into the shop after herself, standing politely to one side.

"I'll be with you in just a minute, Miss Watson," he said gravely. 

She nodded back, in no rush to return to the house and her mother. The woman glanced over her shoulder as Mr. Reeves spoke, and when their eyes met, Harriet was pierced through had through by the most brilliant pair of dark blue eyes she had ever seen. The woman, really a girl little older than herself, tilted her head, looking at the books Harriet held against her chest.

"Just the book I wanted!" The woman held out her hand, palm up. "You must let me buy it, else I shall die of boredom over the next week."

"Ah, the Dumas? I'm afraid Lady Kildare specifically asked for that title, Miss Watson," Mr. Reeves was firm, if apologetic.

For a split second, Harriet considered simply handing the book over as requested. But the truth was that this was _her_ book! She wanted to read it, and she had found it first, so it was hers. Lady Kildare could undoubtedly afford to buy the entire shop, never mind a measly little book costing thruppence. Harriet lied only a little. "I'm afraid this is my only entertainment. My mother is ill and loves it when I read to her."

Mr. Reeves raised an eyebrow.

"You have two other books, my dear, surely you can spare one!" Lady Kildare shook her hand a bit.

Oh, that was not on. Harriet would never be so rude as to demand something someone else was buying, regardless of whether or not she were a Lady. Even as she thought this, inside she was quivering. Mother would be horrified to hear her talking back to a member of the Peerage, even if it was only Irish nobility. Amazed at her own audacity, she shook her head mutely.

Lady Kildare's eyes widened, then she reached out and tried to pluck the book out of Harriet's grasp. For a long moment they grappled over it, Harriet dropping the other books in her desire to keep the thickest one, Mr. Reeves staring at them open mouthed with shock. Finally she let the book go, utterly taken aback by her own behavior - Mr. Reeves was sure to spread word of it. She would be shunned by everyone - Mother would hate her even more - she would never live this down. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she simply wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. "Excuse me," she muttered, picking up her skirts and practically running for the door.

Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds, blinding her as she looked for Sarah. Oh, she was still there, the old gossip. Catching sight of Harriet, however, she said her goodbyes and hastened to her side, even though Harriet was walking as fast as she could out of the square. 

"Didn't find anything? More's the pity," said Sarah, answering her own question. She looped her arm through Harriet's, chattering away without regard to what Harriet thought. "You won't believe who's in town. The Duke and Duchess of Kildare! Come to visit the Earl and Lady Mead. Come to make a marriage, more like. That girl of theirs is eighteen if she's a day, and their only daughter."

G-d, what had she done? Harriet smiled while gritting her teeth at the same time.

"Six boys and only the one girl, can you imagine? That house must have been in an uproar no matter how many nannys they had," clucked Sarah. "My boys are a handful and all, but the girls were worse! Always making messes and bringing them into the house."

Harriet sidestepped a muddy patch and despaired over her recent actions. There was going to be a black mark against her name, a mark that could effect John, no less. 

"You all right, Miss Harriet?"

She was a fool, a little fool!

"Miss Harriet?"

The gentle touch on her arm brought her back to where she was and who she was with. Harriet smiled a little and shook her head. "I'm fine, Sarah. Just remembered the title of the book I wanted to look for."

Sarah nodded, though she looked doubtful.

Once back at the house, Harriet went straight to her room. She had to write a letter to Lady Kildare and apologize profusely. With shaking hands, she retrieved pen and paper and sat at her desk. A single drop of ink fell onto the paper, marring its otherwise pure surface. Not only that, it was the last sheet of paper she had from the pad given to her for her birthday the previous year. If she went downstairs to borrow more, her mother would see and demand to know to whom she was writing, as well as needing to read the letter for herself to ensure it was all 'proper'. As if Harriet had some secret beau.

With a deep breath, she began to write, the scratch of pen against paper suddenly the most egregious sound she had ever heard.

_My Lady Kildare -_

_I beg of you to please exuse my most atrocious behavior at Mr. Reeves Bookshop. My only exuse is that I am of weak character when it comes to the enjoyment of Books, as I am sure you will understand completely._

_I can only humbly beg your pardon in this matter._

_Yours truly,_

_Miss Harriet Watson_

Harriet read it over again twice, before folding it and writing the address. Getting the seal and the wax from the parlour was an impossibility, so she tied it with a scrap of yellow ribbon instead, drawing a simple bouquet of flowers on the back. It was acceptible...hopefully Lady Kildare would agree.

 

~*~oOo~*~

Days passed. The weather turned warmer, then cooler, then warm again with thunderstorms that kept Harriet inside with the curtains drawn. Ever since Old Man Curry had been struck by lightning when she was ten, she had been terrified by thunderstorms. With no word by letter or gossip from Sarah, it seemed that Lady Kildare had taken her apology to heart, and Harriet gradually relaxed. 

The village fete on the green was the highlight of the summer activities, and this year there was added excitement, as board members of the National Holstein Association were coming to judge the quality of Farmer Williams's herd. Harriet had stripped her second best dress of its velvet trim, replacing it with ivory lace that looked very pretty against the pale golden brown fabric. The day was fine, hot and sunny without a cloud in the sky, so she wore her straw hat as well. The hat was ridiculous with the dress, but why should she ruin her complexion? She would weather the comments she was going to get, and have the last laugh years from now when her skin remained unlined and unspotted.

Once she and Sarah arrived at the fete, she soon found Nancy Greensleeves, and they went around the exhibits arm in arm. Thus it was, while sampling slices of pickle from Mrs. Brown's kitchen, that Harriet, completely oblivious to anything but her own happiness in the moment, turned to get a glass of water from the water butt so helpfully provided by Mr. Brown, and unintentionally bumped into a woman wearing a sky blue day gown. 

"Oh! Miss Watson!"

Harriet stared at the speaker, utterly nonplussed to be standing in front of Lady Kildare once again.

Lady Kildare's eyebrows arched up. "Have you nothing to say to me?"

"I do beg your pardon, my lady," blurted Harriet, dropping into a curtsy at the same time. In the periphery she could see Nancy doing the same thing, and wished to g-d Nancy was wearing a prettier dress. Wished to g-d _she_ was wearing a prettier dress.

A man whose features closely resembled Lady Kildare ambled up behind her, eyeing Harriet up and down."Who's this, then?"

"Miss Harriet Watson," said Lady Kildare, speaking towards him while still looking at Harriet. "We met at that little book shop in the town, by the market, you remember?"

"Ah yes," said the gentleman, rocking back on his feet a little. "You stole her book."

For a second Harriet thought he was referring to her, and terror struck her heart. Before she had a chance to declare her innocence, Lady Kildare chuckled and shook her head, a long black curl of hair escaping her hat in the process and bouncing on her shoulder.

"No, no, Tiernan, she almost stole mine," Lady Kildare replied, still watching Harriet with a sharp gaze. "Though she did write me a letter of apology later that week, which I accept."

Harriet inclined her head, feeling embarrassed and grateful in equal amounts.

"I meant to write back to you, Miss Watson, in light of that apology."

"There was no need," Harriet said shyly.

The gentleman snorted. "Dear sister, you collect apologies as a flame collects moths."

Lady Kildare swatted him lightly on the arm with her fan. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. Ignore my brother, Miss Watson, he knows not of what he speaks."

Lord Kildare rolled his eyes, which endeared him to Harriet a little. The next part, not as much.

"Are we done, Jemima? Have you gotten your fill of this quaint fete?"

Harriet bristled, but he had only spoke the truth. Of course, to him this would seem quaint and old fashioned. Which is of course why she had to go and open her big mouth to say exactly the same. "Furthermore, this fete is for the people who live here, not Londoners."

By this point Nancy had crowded up to Harriet, and she could feel her fine trembling through their linked arms.

"The little cat has claws," crowed Lady Kildare, grinning. "Only serves him right, your little scratch."

Yes, well, whatever that meant, Harriet was sure it was only a partial compliment. 

Lady Kildare licked her lips, still staring boldly at Harriet. "Come to Charleswood. Seeing as my brother has behaved in a beastly manner, it is only fitting I should ease your suffering in that regard and come to tea."

Tea? _Tea??_ At _Charleswood_ , only the finest house for ten miles or more?

"Will you? Come?"

"Ye-e-es, my lady," stuttered Harriet. "Of course."

"Good. We shall take our leave and let you get back to the...pickles. Good day."


	5. Arm in Arm

Like everyone else in the village, Harriet had been to Charleswood Manor exactly once, when the Duke and Duchess had been persuaded to hold the village fete on its grounds. Not anywhere near the house, mind, though she remembered seeing it from afar. It was a large old house, and from she could see of its grand, ivy-covered facade, it looked exactly the same. Far from being taken to a tea room, she was led directly through the house to the other side, where Miss Kildare and her mother, Lady Kildare, were seated at a delicate, scrolled iron table painted white, which chairs to match. The table top was covered with tiers of cakes and sandwiches and scones, as well as the tea service, which had enough for six.

"Ah, Miss Watson, how good of you to come," cried Miss Kildare, bouncing up from her seat to press Harriet's hands together between her own. "Do come and sit down. March has just brought the tea."

"Oh Jemima, must you be so rude?" commented Lady Kildare, turning her gaze to Harriet with obvious expectations of introduction.

"Mother, this is Miss..."

"Harriet Watson, ma'am," said Harriet with a little bob, still surprised at the eagerness of Miss Kildare's greeting. It was obvious where Miss Kildare got her looks from; Lady Kildare had large blue eyes, her skin as pale as snow, her hair an odd shade of plum-black. Harriet thought it would be wise of her never to sit in sunlight, but Lady Kildare was under a white parasol attached to the back of her chair.

"Miss Harriet Watson," Miss Kildare repeated, drawing Harriet over to a chair and pressing her to sit down. "We have the same interest in books, Mother, and I am so glad to see you, Miss Watson, for I thought we could read together and discuss whatever topic we chose."

That...was rather a brilliant idea, actually. "Yes, I should love to."

"Excellent, then it's settled. Now, would you like milk, or lemon?"

The rest of the afternoon passed by in a daze. Despite their inauspicious beginnings in the bookshop, Harriet found Miss Kildare to be a warm and witty woman, one who was happy to hear Harriet talk as well. While she was at first nervous as being in Lady Kildare's presence, Lady Kildare herself was completely nonplussed by Harriet. By the time Harriet was walking home, stuffed with little cakes and tiny, perfectly square sandwiches, carrying a basket filled with jars of pear compote and strawberry jam, potted shrimps and a small wheel of cheese, she was thanking G-d for her unruly temper, for without it, she would have spent her afternoon at home, playing another interminable round of Solitaire and wishing John was home already.

But the most incredible thing out of an incredible, unbelievable day, was the invitation. She could only pray her mother would see fit to agree ti Lady Kildare's proposal. Thinking back on it, how amusing, that Lady Kildare be the one to make the suggestion in the first place. Of course, Miss Kildare and Lady Kildare had a much different view of the world than did either Harriet or her mother. Not only that, Miss Kildare had five brothers, three of whom stopped by to drink copious amounts of tea and eat all the cakes. There was Lord Tiernan, who was tall and dark and was clearly tired of his sister's antics, whatever they might be, then Lord Oisin, who was a year older than Miss Kildare and the tallest of the lot. Finally there was Lord Brendan, who was twelve and obviously the baby of the family, though his hair was blond and his eyes black as sin.

"I think we should bring her with us," mumbled Lord Tiernan around a mouthful of cake as he looked at Lady Kildare, who in turn made a moue of disgust, dabbing delicately at her lips.

"I agree," said Lord Brendan, busily wiping his hands on his trouser and smearing crumbs over himself. "This is the happiest Jemima's ever been. Well, apart fr - "

"Brendan!" snapped Lord Tiernan, casually cuffing his brother at the same time. 

Lord Brendan didn't seem too bothered by his brother's reaction, which went a ways to relieving the sudden tension in the air. 

Harriet looked down at her cup of tea and tried to fade into her chair.

"I'm just saying - "

"Brendan, not in front of our guest," Lady Kildare was smiling as she rebuked her son, and though the words were mild, the tone was not. "Pray excuse my youngest son, Miss Watson. His mouth often opens before his mind comprehends."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And yet the boy frequently has good ideas. And in that spirit, would you care to come to Bath with us for the season?"

Harriet blinked at Lady Kildare rather stupidly, in hindsight. Bath? _Her?_

"Do say you'll come, Miss Watson!" Miss Jemima piped. "I would so love to have a companion with me."

"She just wants to show you all the sights she's seen before," crowed Lord Brendan, reaching for another sandwich, only to be rapped on the knuckles by Lady Kildare's butter knife. He recoiled, holding his hand to his chest in mock wounding. "Mam!"

Lord Oisian shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to show a new friend all of one's favorite haunts. I do it every year."

Harriet broke in before anyone else could berate Lord Brendan. "I should love to come, but only if my mother approves."

"Of course, of course," said Lady Kildare, topping up Harriet's tea. "I shall write a letter that you may take home with you."

 

~*~oOo~*~

 

_Dear John -_

_You will never believe what has happened! Mother has agreed to let me go to Bath with Lord Kildare's daughter, Miss Jemima ~~Wats~~ Kildare! Mother has said I could go, that I could have three of her dresses let out and adjusted for the modern time. I can barely stand the excitement! Will you be in Bath this summer? Are you coming home early enough that I can see you before I go? We're to leave in mid-June, and return in a few weeks._

_I have met three of Miss Jemima's brothers, Lords Tiernan, Ossian, and Brendan. They are all very kind, though LB is but twelve and knows it very well. I do so hope he can grow out of this, otherwise he will have a difficult time in this world._

_Mother, as you might expect, was very confusing. She was not well pleased that I wanted to go, yet at the same time wants me to find a husband while I am there. I think Sarah may talk to her, she looked at me with sympathy, for Mother and I discussed things over the dinner table._

_Have you any words of advice for me, that I can convince Mother to let me go?"_

_Your loving sister, Harriet_

A week later, Harriet was most gratified to receive a small parcel from John. She was thrilled, actually. He was not the most punctual of men, at least not with her. Inside the parcel was a letter and a beautiful pink silk scarf wrapped around a book.

 

_Dear Harriet -_

_Good luck with convincing Mother to let you do anything she does not want you to do. Now, having said that, I shall write to her as well and endeavour to change her mind one way or t'other. I am certain that between all of us, you shall be the Belle of Bath. Tell me more of the Kildares in your next letter, I don't recall having heard of them before? Take the book with you, with my compliments._

_As for myself, I passed my exams with gusto, and with only one more set to do, you will soon be calling me Dr. Watson._

_Your loving brother, John_

 

_Dearest Brother -_

_The Kildares are visiting Lord and Lady X for a few weeks. They are from Ireland, as you may well have guessed. An ancient family, they are surprisingly kind to me. Miss Jemima, in particular, has become my champion . You may recall that her youngest brother, Lord Brendan, has set upon torturing me, for reasons I do not know-_

_Dearest Brother -_

_Bath is extraordinary! I have been introduced to Society, and believe I have comported myself admirably, all things considered. I wore - Oh, you won't care what I wore, but suffice to say I looked lovely in it, everyone said so. Many gentlemen (and some scoundrels!) have tried to make love to me, but as you well know, I am not having any of them. It's not that I don't trust the Kildares, but I would rather have you or Mother by my side in the heat of the moment. Besides, we are really here for Miss Jemima, and it would not do for me, her only companion, to find a beau before she does._

_Have you completed your final exam yet? Can I officially refer my friends to you as a doctor? Must I restrain Alice from setting her cap at you?_

_Your loving sister, H. Watson._

_Dearest Sister -_

_Need I be worried over the state of your entrance into Society? I can arrive post-haste, should you require it._

_Yes, I am a fully qualified doctor, now. What's more - and here I have news that I can barely tell to you, so great is my concern that you will take it the wrong way - I have bought a commission in Her Majesty's Army._

 

Oh, how well Harriet remembered reading that last line, all those years ago. How frightened she had been for John, and how proud at the same time. Jemima had been in one of her touchy moods, congratulating her with a one armed hug and a kiss on her cheek. Even Lord Kildare had bowed in her direction upon hearing the news. She could only hope John had already sent Mother a letter of her own, and that Mother would be recovered by the time Harriet returned home.

Putting the letters to one side, she selected the middle diary and opened it to a random page. Immediately recognising the date, she shook her head in disbelief. How foolish she had been, falling in love without even realizing it! But de Souza was from Argentina and she simply had not seen what was coming. 

They met Joaquin de Souza by chance, the friend of a friend of a friend, as it were, a young gentleman from Argentina, whose family was wealthy beyond reason and was taking the Grand Tour during his gap year at Oxford. He was tall, and very handsome, with golden skin and dark brown hair and eyes. His teeth were very white and his accent delightful. He was well-mannered, laughed at all the right jokes, knew all the right people. He was confident and intelligent and very nearly every mother's dream husband for their daughter, for he had twenty thousand a year and was the middle child of three sons.

Now, in hindsight, it was obvious. De Souza was suddenly everywhere they went, in the next box during the theatre, in the same row during concerts, on walks where Harriet least expected to see him. 

Harriet shook her head again, feeling so sorry for her younger, devastated self. What had she known of love before then except for what John had told her? Oh, she had been a young, naive, easily manipulated slip of a girl. She had also been unbelievably confident when in truth she knew nothing, nothing!

Jemima had taken advantage of her in the most cruel of ways, making love to her as if they were to be together forever. Indeed, at first her kisses had been gentle and sweet, as was normal between two women who were close. They had walked arm in arm, taken afternoon naps in the same bed, played dress up with Jemima's old gowns. It had all changed, however, that one dreary afternoon, when the weather was so terrible, hot and storming at the same time. Everyone had retired to their rooms, still exhausted from the party of the night before. As it happened, the room Harriet usually slept in was being used by Timothy, Lord Orange, and his insipid wife, who did nothing but prattle on about her needlework and her garden. Jemima's suggestion that Harriet stay with her instead of in the attic with the help was immediately taken to be the best solution, and thus Harriet was duly placed into Jemima's bedroom.

The room was stifling, so much so that Jemima had thrown open the windows and then closed the curtains. Harriet had rather thought that defeated the purpose, but Jemima wouldn't hear of reopening the curtains.

"We won't be able to sleep, dear heart, with the curtains open. The lightning will keep us up as if it were the sun itself shining down upon us. Now come, let's loosen our stays and lie down for a bit."

Harriet could only welcome this brilliant suggestion with eagerness, for her stays were tied too tight and she had been on the verge of fainting all morning.

Before long they were in Jemima's great downy bed, a cloud Harriet could happily sleep on for the rest of her life, if given the chance. Harriet had closed her eyes and was half asleep when the mattress dipped and Jemima began whispering in her ear.

"Have you ever kissed a man?"

Harriet snorted. "Just the vicar, and my uncle, and he doesn't really count."

"Your brother?"

She wrinkled her nose at the very idea.

"No?"

"Of course not! He's my brother!"

There was a small silence, a silence so heavy Harriet wondered if maybe she should have lied, instead. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find Jemima on her elbow next to her, staring down at Harriet's face. "What?"

"You're so pretty. Any man should be glad to have you."

It was not the first time Jemima had said such things to Harriet in private, yet this was different, Jemima sounded sad. The only think Harriet could think to do to ease the pain she saw in her friend's face was the reach up and kiss her, a light peck on the lips to show she wanted Jemima to be happy. Jemima's forehead creased, and then she came down, crushing Harriet to the bed, her lips hard against Harriet's.

At first she was too stunned to move. Then Jemima palmed Harriet's breast through her chemise, and Harriet gasped, arching into Jemima's touch. Jemima made a high pitched little groan, scratching her nails over Harriet's nipple and it was as if Harriet had never felt her body be more alive. She could feel everything, the heat of Jemima's sex as it pressed against her leg, the way Jemima sucked on the lobe of her ear, the rose scent in her hair - Harriet wanted to touch her in return.

She tentatively curled her arms around Jemima's shoulders and kissed the side of her neck. Jemima shifted on top of Harriet, slipping one leg between both of Harriet's. Harriet lost herself in a tangle of limbs and kisses, of touching and being touched in return, and when Jemima finally sat up and stripped off her chemise, Harriet could only wonder why they hadn't started off this way in the first place. 

A strong gust of wind blew the curtains wide, giving Harriet a brief glimpse of Jemima running her hands down her body and spreading herself wide, showing her glistening pink sex. Of course Harriet occasionally touched herself in the night - John had once intimated that it was only healthy for women to perform the same act as men, and that the world would be a happier place if women could only show their true natures, so the sight before her was hardly shocking. If anything, it only made her more curious, now that she could see what she had been feeling when it was dark. She was struck by the difference between them. She was slimmer in the hip, but heavier in the bust. Her skin was dotted with small brown moles, while Jemima's was the palest of pale apart from where she was blushed rose pink. She wasn't sure what to do next, either. 

Jemima fell forward and kissed Harriet again, sticking her tongue between Harriet's lips. It wasn't the first time she had done so, but this was the first time Harriet was comfortable enough to reciprocate. Jemima exhaled a moan when Harriet returned her kiss, then slid down her body, nipping and sucking as she went.

At Jemima's taps on the insides of Harriet's thighs, she spread her legs and watched as Jemima settled on her belly between them. Harriet could not fathom what Jemima aas going to do down there.

Jemima glanced up, smiling wickedly, and then put her mouth to work.

At first Harriet was confused, but within moments she had to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle her cries.

 

Sitting in her room, the diary forgotten in her hands, Harriet abruptly became aware there were people in the house. John's slightly uneven gait as he stomped mud from his boots, Hartwell's high pitched question and the lower tone of John's response, Martha's irritated clucking as she gathered her things together to leave. Harriet was going to have to go downstairs soon enough, but first she would have to calm down. That night with Jemima was but the first of many. They took pleasure from one another as often as they could, making the shock of Jemima's engagement and eventual marriage all the stronger.

 

_Joh -_

_It's all fallen apart and she doesn't love me and I don't know what_

 

Jemima had taken advantage of her in the most cruel way, quite deliberately, Harriet felt. Lord Brendan had warned her, in a roundabout way, though she had laughed at his off-color comment. As had everyone else, she assumed, until she spied Lord Tiernan holding Lord Brendan by his shoulders, shaking him a bit as he spoke. Lord Brendan had apologised with tears in his eyes, and she had looked at Lord Tiernan very differently thereafter. 

Of course, he had been proven right. She should have known when Joaquin de Souza showed up in Vienna. And Prague. And Athens.

They became friends, of a sort. De Souza was fond of the classic poets, of art and architecture, science and medicine, of which she had some knowledge.

The denouement of her summer with Lord and Lady Kildare had come at Christmas. Ah, there was the entry.

_December 25, 1848, Marrakech_

_My poor heart is broken. I can neither eat nor sleep. My stomach roils and boils and I have the queerest pain in my chest, the constant ache and sorrow over the certain knowledge of what I have lost. I want to go home, but it is easiest to travel with everyone else. I have enough to get to Spain, but am frightful of traveling alone. Too many brigands and, of course, the Moors are untrustworthy._

_Perhaps I have become a fool - no, I have been a fool, a foolish, foolish girl, and when I return home everyone shall know my my shame._

 

~*~oOo~*~

 

The announcement had been made at dinner, during the unexpected champagne toast over the dessert plate. Harriet had taken a fig, grapes, and an orange, along with an assortment of cheeses and thinnest slices of bread.

This being High Society, of course Harriet had no inkling that such a toast was unusual.

De Souza stood and gathered the attention of everyone at the table. Harriet was wearing one of Jemima's cast-offs, a soft rose colored gown and pearls in her hair, while Jemima was striking in a grey gown wand a diamond tiara that set off the brilliance of her ebon hair.

The moment Harriet could never forget played in her memory as if she were still there in the dining room.

"Lord and Lady Kildare, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. I should like to thank you all for being here on this, the evening I should like to introduce you to the woman who has condescended to be my wife, Miss Jemima Honeygrove, Lady Kildare."

Harriet froze, holding a fig in mid-air. She watched as Jemima rose to her feet, demure, looking at everyone underneath her eyelashes and thanking them for their congratulations. Somehow Harriet managed to mouth the words, although no sound came out of her mouth. For the life of her, she could not even say how the rest of the evening had gone. Had there been music? Probably. More champagne? Certainly. She remembered writing furiously in her diary before falling into an exhausted slumber just as the sun was beginning to rise. For the rest of the holiday she felt ill and off her food, to the point where she begged Lady Kildare to send her home.

"My dear, are you sure?" asked Lady Kildare, segmenting an peach with a sharp knife.

"Yes, ma'am. I seem to have caught a malady of the stomach. My brother is a doctor, he'll know how best to treat me."

Lad Kildare nodded, still concentrating on her peach. "Well, if you feel you must go, who are we to stop you? I shall have William make the arrangements.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Harriet had left the very next day, on the next ship to London. Quite amazing, how her stomach and head had cleared soon after the ship left shore. A few weeks later a letter had arrived, a letter she had plucked out of Sarah's hand with no small amount of haste, bringing it to her room, where she held it and dithered over whether or not to open it. Ultimately she had not, her feelings still so strong where Jemima was concerned, that she feared for her health.

And there, on the bottom of the bundle, was the letter. She was still torn over whether or not to open it. Eleven years had passed since then. She was different now, yet even thinking of Jemima gave her a strange, ethereal pain in her chest, almost like the memory of an ache, but still poignant.

The wax seal was still firm, the bright green Jemima said reminded her of home, of Ireland. The handwriting on the front was spidery and beautiful and oh, Harriet was still scared to open it. What if Jemima had had regrets? What if it was a plea for Harriet to come to her side? 

Harriet looked at it seal and tore it off so fiercely she ripped the paper beneath. Well, it was done. She was going to look at it no matter what the consequences might be. The corners of the paper trembled when she held it up to read, and something fluttered to her lap: a bluebell, the color still brilliant.

_Dear Miss Watson -_

She had to look away for a brief moment, stunned by the tone.

_Dear Miss Watson -_

_It pains me to think I shall not see you at the wedding. Given how suddenly your illness came on in Marrakech, I think it is for the best that we not see one another again._

_I am very glad we met, and had such a wonderful Season together._

_Yours_

_Miss J. Honeygrove, Kildare._

Harriet flipped the letter over to the other side, then back, to read it again. 

That was it?

For this note, for years, she had spent months and weeks and years in agony for _this?_

Crumpling the note in her fist, she hurled it across the room in a rage. Oh g-d, she was a fool, and a fool and a fool thrice born! In an instant it all became clear; the summer and autumn that had opened her eyes to all that was possible in the world had been nothing more than a dalliance to the person she had most looked loved at the time. Oh! Her rage turned to shame a moment later, and then relief. Oh thank goodness John had never met Jemima. He would have torn her to shreds in a heart beat - assuming he decided not to set his cap at her.

Well. 

Harriet stood up and stormed around the room, unable to contain herself. She was energized - no, enraged. At the same time she felt quite giddy. No longer would she feel Jemima's hold upon her, no more feelings and memories! Maybe...maybe all the maybe's were done, now.

The thought made her dizzy, so dizzy she had to stop pacing and lean against the wall to take a few deep breaths.

For so long, Harried had felt constrained by the memory of Jemima and the things they had done. Perhaps if Silas had been a different kind of man, she would have been more open with him about her experiences. Ultimately he had proven to be a disappointment as a husband, proving the lie of her hopes and dreams, though she had two beautiful children by him without regret. His touch had been impersonal, and when she ventured touching him in turn, he had made it clear he preferred otherwise. She was sure she had done something to turn him against her, though what that might have been, she had yet to figure out. 

Silas and Jemima were similar, too. Jemima had been critical of the way Harriet looked, how much she ate, the dull palate of her wardrobe. Silas had merely to look at her and raise andeyebrow and she had gone scurrying to her room to change, or add a bit of frippery to look more appealing and fashionable. She sometimes had the distinct impression she was a disappointment to him, in turn. When she thought about it, she had to wonder: why had he asked to marry her in the first place when it seemed he didn't even _like_ her? Then again, without Jemima she would never have met Silas, nor come to America or met Clara. Far from hating Jemima, Harriet should be grateful to her, for showing her new ways of comfort and happiness. 

To think how hurt she had been before and after Jemima's wedding, had even lain in her bed the day of the celebration, pleading a migraine. G-d, if only she had know what the future held!

Now, she was free from Jemima and free from Silas, from whom she had heard nothing in nearly three years. Four more and she would be a widow, officially. Privately, she already considered herself one; after all, he wasn't at sea, nor in the deepest parts of South America. It was perfectly reasonable for a wife to expect a letter or a knock at the door, even a notice in the newspaper, concerning the welfare of her spouse. To date there had been nothing. Even his own family - he had only once mentioned having two brothers and a sister - had failed to ask for his whereabouts. Given all that, why should she not consider herself free? 

So.

With renewed vigor, Harriet retied the letters into a bundle, wondering even as she did so if she should just burn them, instead. It was a reminder of what had been...but also, of the things she done and the places she had been, and surely that was worth remembering? Besides, she could always transcribe them into one of the new journals, or better yet, cut them up and glue them onto each page, in order of calendar date. In fact, that sounded best, that's what she would do.

Task completed, she put the letters and diaries back into their hiding place, covered them well and went downstairs. 

To her surprise, Clara was home, too. The children were at the kitchen table, working on their letters and numbers on small slates Harriet Jingle had gotten from somewhere. Clara was crouched in between Hartwell and Eliza, fondly gazing at Hartwell, pointing to something on his slate. 

Harriet's heart swelled at the sight of her, smiling at Hartwell, her eyes bright, her countenance happy, and when she looked up and saw Harriet, her smile bloomed and it was all Harriet could do not to sweep into the room and kiss the very life out her.

 

~*~oOo~*~

 

Later that night, long after dinner, when Mr. Holmes had gone home, and Jingle had gone to bed, Harriet and Clara and John sat in the parlour. Clara was half-asleep, slumped on the sofa, covered with a soft quilt. John was at the table, playing Solitaire, while Harriet sat and stared at the fire, thinking back on the letters. 

It had taken a long time for her to accept an offer of marriage, after Jemima. Over a year, much to Mother's distress. Undoubtedly it was the Vicar who put the word out amongst the available men, for after January and her return from Marrakech, there was a never-ending queue of men to the house. Several made offers, but ultimately it was Silas who caught her attention. An acquaintance of Nancy Greensleeves's cousin, who was visiting from Cornwall, Silas Watson was...well, in hindsight, unlike his real self. He had been the epitome of a gentleman, warm, caring, kind. That was not her imagination, he genuinely had been that way, which later on, made her wonder if it was her fault, if she had somehow disappointed him, and that was why he had become so mean to her. 

Tired of Mother haranguing her on a near daily basis, and exhausted from the endless parade and prattle of dull men, Harriet had eagerly accepted Silas's offer of marriage. The day itself had been fine, breezy and sunny and everything a bride could possibly want. There was only one problem: Silas's true nature had appeared.

John had witnessed it; Silas grabbing her wrist the day before. On the surface it sounded relatively innocent. They had been in town, looking at, oh, Harriet didn't even remember, now. Some bit of frippery, no doubt. She had stepped away from him, and he had grabbed her wrist so hard, jerking her towards him that she yelped in pain and surprise.

"Shut up!" he hissed. 

Shocked, all she could do was stare at him. It was hardly the first time he had held her too tightly, or given her a bruise, yet he had never done so in public before. Catching sight of someone over her shoulder, he instantly released her and walked away. Harriet rubbed her wrist, still surprised, and when John appeared a moment later, he had a face like thunder. He said nothing, merely examined her wrist, giving her a tight smile. The next morning he had come to her in the parlour, obviously having waited for Mother to leave.

"Harriet?"

She turned, but could say nothing. It was too late for him to rescue her. She was lost, in more ways than one. She shook her head.

"I'll take you away," he said softly, standing next to the fireplace with one hand on the back of the chair, the very picture of masculine confidence. "I'll make it so he'll never find you."

Speechless, all she could do was wipe away the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes.

"Harriet..."

"I can't do it, John," she finally gasped. "The shame of it -!"

He made a face, and she knew what he was thinking. But he did not understand. He had been out of the house for years, he had not seen what she had; her desperate measures to keep as respectable as possible, the paucity of coin, the debts owed. By marrying Silas she was away from it all, and for good. It was her one choice to make, for good or ill, and she had taken it with both hands.

"I can't," she whispered, wringing her hands together.

John's face fell. He nodded. "As you wish."

As he walked out of the room, Harried wanted to scream and tell him to come back, she was wrong, she wanted to go to London with him, but the door closed and she was left standing by the window, lost and forlorn.

"I should have gone with you," Harriet said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Clara. "John, when you asked, I should have gone with you."

He looked up, blinked. She saw the moment he understood what she was saying. He gave her a sad little quirk of his lips. "Yes, you should have."

How kind of him, to say such a thing after all these years. A mark of his affection for her, to remember so strongly what he had seen. "I thought I had no choice."

"Mother would have recovered."

"No, she wouldn't've," she scoffed lightly. "She would have gone straight to her cups and then her grave, railing at me all the while and begging you to make it right."

"Yes, you're right. She would've hated you until the end of time."

"Did you hate me?"

"Good g-d, no! Why on earth would you think that? You didn't think that of me, did you?"

"No, no," she hastened to say, for his look of hurt was terrible. "I'm sorry. I don't think I've ever asked how you felt about Silas."

"Oh, I think you know how I feel about your husband. G-d help him should he return to this household," he snapped, slapping a card down with such force the breeze form its passing made all the rest flutter to the floor.

"Wha..?" Clara startled awake, shooting to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbled into the fire. "What? Sorry, sorry, I fell asleep. Obviously...sorry."

"It's fine," answered Harriet, steadying Clara with a hand on her hip. "Why don't you go to bed."

Clara nodded and left the room without speaking further, something she would never do had she been more alert. Even John watched her leave, one eyebrow raised. He glanced at Harriet and tipped his head toward the door, looking amused.

"What?" she asked. "What's that look for?"

"Go on," he said fondly. "She'll want you there."

With such words, was she forgiven and made whole anew. On her way out of the parlour, she stepped close and gave him a tight hug, kissing him on the forehead for good measure. _Such_ a good man. 

"Go, let me play my damned game in peace."

"Good night, John Watson."

"Good night, Harriet Watson."

They looked at one another and then said, in unison. "Relation."


End file.
